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EARLY 

ENGLISH 

HERO TALES 




JEANNETTE MARKS 




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COFi'RiGKT DEPOSIT. 



THROUGH 
GOLDEN DOORS 

TO 

ENGLISH LITERATURE 



THROUGH GOLDEN DOORS 

TO 

ENGLISH LITERATURE 

a new series 

By Jeannette Marks 

Lecturer at Mt. Holyoke College 

The master-stories of English literature told for young 
readers. The author, who has been professor of EngHsh Litera- 
ture at Mt. Holyoke and the author of several successful 
books for both younger and older readers, has been occupied 
for a long time in making a selection of the best stories from the 
greatest English writers beginning with " Beowulf " and the dawn 
of English letters. 

The present volume offers masterpieces chosen from the 
earliest English literature from the seventh to the fourteenth 
century, stories which are not readily accessible. 

The second volume will offer hero tales of the Middle English 
period, from Chaucer and others. 

In later volumes selections will be made from the masters 
of modern English literature. 

EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

From 600 to 1340 

Other books in preparation 

Each illustrated f i2mo, Cloth ^ 50 cents net 

Harper & Brothers, Publishers 




MEDIEVAL LONDON 
From Manuscript 16 F. ii in the British Museum 





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EARLY 

ENGLISH 

HERO TALES 

TOLD BY C>^,,y,.jZ, 

JEANNETTE, ^lAMCS 

WELLESLEY, M.A. 
LECTURER AT MT. HOLYOKE COLLEGE 

ILLUSTRATED 






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HARPER &- BROTHERS 

NEW YORK 6" LONDON 












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COPYRIGHT. 1915. BY HARPER ft BROTHERS 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
PUBLISHED APRIL. 1915 

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m 17 1915 



TO 
H. M. C. 



CONTENTS 

CHAP. PAGE 

Introduction vii 

I. The First English Hero i 

II. Welsh Magic 9 

III. The Battle at the Ford 18 

IV. C^DMON THE Cowherd 30 

V. The Shepherd of Lauderdale 41 

VI. The Boy Who Won a Prize 48 

VII. A Fisherman's Boy 57 

VIII. The Werewolf 68 

IX. At Geoffrey's Window 75 

X. A Famous Kitchen Boy 85 

Chronology .101 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Medieval London Frontispiece ^ 

(From Green's Short History of the English People.) 

Kings in Armor Page 27 

(From Green's Short History of the English People.) 

Henry III. Sailing Home from Gascony, 1243 . ** 61 

(From Green's Short History of the English People.) 

Knight in Armor ** 87 

(From Green's Short History of the English People.) 



INTRODUCTION 

SUPPOSING you were asked to enter a Great 
Palace? And within that palace, you were 
told, were more than a thousand golden doors? 
And those doors opened into rooms and upon gar- 
dens and balconies, all of which were the most 
beautiful of palace rooms and gardens? And 
some were more beautiful than anything the world 
had ever known before ? Do you think you would 
go through the gate to that palace? 

And if you were told that in the palace were 
lamps so bright that they lighted not only the 
palace, but cast a glow over the whole world? 
And that these lamps htmg from chains the ends 
of which you could not see, just as Pryderi was 
not able to see the ends of the hanging golden 
chains in the palace which he entered? And 
once within the Great Palace you were not only 
better for being there, but also happier and 
stronger and more beautiful, and never any more 
could you be lonely? It sounds like an Aladdin's 
lamp, does it not, which, once seen and touched, 
could bring so much beauty and power into our 
lives! Indeed, it is Aladdin's lamp — the lamp 



INTRODUCTION 

of men's minds and souls. And the Great Palace 
is the Palace of English Literature. 

Over those doors are many names written — 
names never to be forgotten while the English 
tongue is spoken. And in that palace there is 
fairyland; there are giants and monsters; there 
are warrior heroes like Beowulf, and saintly 
heroes like Cuthbert; there are noble boys like 
Alfred; there are poets, princes, lovely ladies, 
little children, spirited horses, faithful dogs; 
there are heard the sound of singing, the playing 
of the harp, the beat of feet dancing, cries of glad- 
ness, cries of sorrow, the rolling of the organ, the 
fluting of birds, the laughter of water, and the 
whisper of ever>^ wind that has blown upon the 
fields of the world; there are seen flowers of 
every marvelous and starlike shape, of every 
rainbow hue, and jewels as shining as the lamps 
hanging in the Great Palace, and fruits rare and 
strange filling the Great Palace with sweet fra- 
grance and color; there are rooms unlike any rooms 
we have ever seen before ; and the years are there 
— ^nearly two thousand — ^numbered and made beau- 
tiful; there, too, are Wisdom and Kindness and 
Courage and Faith and Modesty and Love and 
Self-Control, coming and going hither and yon 
through the wide hallways or on service bent up 
and down the narrow corridors. 

It is a Palace of Enchantment, is it not? Yes, 
it is a Palace of Enchantment, and I can think of 



INTRODUCTION 

no greater happiness, no stronger assurance that 
we shall learn how to be our best selves and to 
rule ourselves, no greater inspiration to be wise 
and kind while we are boys and girls, and when 
we grow up no fuller promise of a good time and 
many kinds of happiness and pleasure, than just 
to take the gate into that palace, listen to its 
songs and poems and stories, taste of its fruits, 
hold some of its flowers in our hands, grow warm 
in its sunshine, dream in its moonlight, and watch 
the fairies dance with the feet that dance there, 
play with its jewels, listen to the whisper of the 
winds that blow around the world, lay our hands 
in the brave hands of Love and Courage, Wisdom 
and Kindness, who dwell there; knock on those 
golden doors where we would go in and be alone; 
and come out again, knowing that we have won 
the great enchantment, which is the companion- 
ship of beautiful and imperishable story and 
poem, song and play. 

It is a wonderful Palace of English Literature 
in which we shall see many marvels: the first 
English hero, Beowulf, and the monster Grendel; 
all the fortunes and misfortunes of the little, 
radiant-browed Welsh boy called Taliesin, the 
battle of the friends Cuchulain and Ferdiad, who 
were betrayed by the false Irish Queen Maeve; 
how song came to our first great English poet, 
Caedmon, in the cow-stall at the Monastery of 
Whitby (670); of the courage of a shepherd lad 



INTRODUCTION 

who had became a saint, and of even the seals 
who loved St. Cuthbert (seventh centur\') ; of 
the young Prince Alfred who won a book as a 
prize (849-900) ; of Havelok, the son of the King 
of Denmark, who lived with Fisherman Grim at 
Grimsby; of a man who was under enchant- 
ment as a wolf part of the week and whom Marie 
de France called a Werewolf; of all the marvels 
that Geoffrey of ^lonmouth (1147) saw from his 
window; and especially of the wonders which 
King Arthur's magician, IMerlin, worked; and of 
the red and white dragons that came out of a 
drained pond; and of a famous kitchen-boy who 
became a great knight, and about whom Sir 
Thomas ^lalory tells one exciting adventure in 
the Morte d'Arthur (1469). 

What boys and girls will enter the gate with 
me? Shall we go into the Great Palace to-day? 
And on what golden door shall we rap first that 
we may be admitted? 

J. M. 

South Hadley, Mass., January, 1915. 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO 
TALES 



EARLY ENGLISH 
HERO TALES 




THE FIRST ENGLISH HERO 

The first golden door we open in 
the Great Palace shows us a hero, and 
that is as it should be, for the English 
have always been brave. Yet probably 
the poem about this first English hero 
is not the first poem. The first is a 
poem by the name of the ''Far Trav- 
eller/* '*Many men and rulers have 
I known, ' ' says this traveler ; ' ' through 
many strange lands I have fared throughout the 
spacious earth.'* This poem may not be of great 
value, but it is a wonderful experience to open 
this door and see back, back, back, thousands of 
years to the very cradle in which English litera- 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

ture was bom. This first Englishman was a wan- 
derer, as all Englishmen, despite their love of home, 
have been, or else they would not hold so many 
great dominions as they do to-day. Then, too, 
there was '' Deor's Lament,'* with its sad refrain, 

Thas ofer eode, thisses swa maeg 
(That was overcome, so may this be) 

and its grave thought that **The All- wise Lord of 
the world worketh many changes." One more 
poem, or, better, fragment, is spoken of in Beo- 
wulf. **The Fight at Finnesburg'' is full of the 
savagery and fierceness of warfare ; it is even more 
wild and barbarous than ** Beowulf.'' 

Now let us open the door over which is written 
Beowulf, It is one of the oldest and rudest of 
the golden doors in the Great Palace of English 
Poetry, but also one of the most precious. The 
pictures we are to see are beautiful sometimes. 
More often they are cruel and pitiless. 

The sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the 
air was as sweet-smelling as if it rose from fields 
of lilies, and it was the very springtime of the 
world some two thousand years ago. 

By song little Widsith has seen his master bind 
all men and all beasts. Not only the fish and 
worms forgot their tasks, but even the cattle 
stopped grazing, and, where they passed, men and 
children paused to listen. They were on their 

2 



THE FIRST ENGLISH HERO 

way to the Great Hall to have a sight of the hero, 
Beowulf. 

Behind them lay the sea and the coast-guard 
pacing up and down. Before them, landward, 
rose a long, high-roofed hall. It had gable ends 
from which towered up huge stag-horns. And the 
roof shone only less brightly than the sun, for it 
was covered with metal. 

About the Great Hall toward which little Wid- 
sith and the master were traveling was the village 
made up of tiny houses, each in its own patch of 
tilled ground and apple-trees, and with fields in 
which sheep and oxen and horses were pastured. 
Narrow paths wound in and out everywhere. 
In front of the Hall was a broad meadow across 
which the king and queen and their lords and 
ladies were used to walk. 

There was much going on that day in Heorot. 
Flocks of children were playing about the pretty 
paths. Mothers and aunts and older sisters sat 
spinning in the open doorways. Beyond the wide 
meadow young men and boys were leading or 
riding spirited horses up and down to exercise 
them. 

And all — men, women, and children alike — were 
talking about Beowulf, who had come to kill the 
monster Grendel and free the people of Heorot. 

Beowulf had not much more than entered the 
Hall when the scop, or singer, as little Widsith's 
master was called, entered too. In those days 

3 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

singers were welcome everywhere. They saw 
Beowulf stride mightily across the many-colored 
floor of Heorot and go up to the old King. And 
they heard his voice, which sounded like the 
rumble of a heavy sea on their rock-bound coast. 

''Hrothgar!'' he said to the old King, *' across 
the sea's way have I come to help thee.'' 

'*0f thee, Beowulf, have we need,'' replied the 
old King in tears, ''for Heorot has suffered much 
from the monster." 

'T will deliver thee, Hrothgar,'' said Beowulf, 
in his great voice; *'thee and all who dwell in 
Heorot." 

''Steep and stony are the sea cliffs, joyless our 
woods and wolf-haunted, robbed is our Heorot, 
for to Grendel can no man do aught. He breaks 
the bones of my people. And those of my peo- 
ple he cannot eat in Heorot he drags away on to 
the moor and devours alive." 

And the old, bald-headed King, seated on his 
high seat in the Hall between his pretty daughter 
and his tired Queen, sighed as he thought of the 
approaching night. Yet, now that Beowulf had 
come, he hoped. 

Together they gathered about the banquet. 
Beowulf sat among the sons of the old King. 
The walls inside were as bright as the roof, and 
gold-gilded, and the great fires from which smoke 
poured out through openings in the roof were 
cheerful and warm. 

4 



THE FIRST ENGLISH HERO 

Then little Widsith's master was called up, 
and Widsith placed the harp for him. Clear rose 
the song from the scop's lips, and all the company- 
was still. For a while they forgot the monster 
which, even now with the falling dusk, was strid- 
ing up from the sea, perhaps by the same path 
Beowulf and Widsith and the sc6p had come. 
Already it had grown dark under heaven and 
darker in the Hall, and the place was filled with 
shadowy shapes. 

And now came Grendel stalking from the cloudy 
cliffs toward the Gold Hall. It would have been 
hard for four men to have carried his huge head, 
so big it was. The nails of his hands were like 
iron, and large as the monstrous claws of a wild 
beast. And, since there was a spell upon him, no 
sword or spear could harm him. 

While others slept — even frightened little Wid- 
sith, who had thought he could never sleep — 
Beowulf lay awake, ready with his naked hands 
to fight Grendel. 

Suddenly the monster smote the door of Heo- 
rot, and it cracked asunder. In he strode, flame 
in his eyes, and before Beowulf could spring upon 
him or any one awake, he snatched a sleeping 
warrior and tore him to pieces. 

Beowulf, who had the strength of thirty men 
in his body, gripped him, and the dreadful battle 
and noise began. The benches were overturned, 
the walls cracked, the fires were scattered, and 

5 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

dust rose in clouds from the many-colored floor 
as Beowulf wrestled with Grendel. 

The scop had seized his harp and was play- 
ing a great battle song, but music has no power 
over such evil as Grenders. Beowulf himself, 
who was struggling to break the bone -house 
of the monster in the din of the mighty battle, 
did not hear it, either. And the song was lost 
in the noise and dust which rose together in 
Heorot. 

Even the warriors, who struck Grendel with 
their swords, could not help Beowulf, for neither 
sword nor spear could injure the monster. Only 
the might of the hero, himself, could do aught. 

At last, with the strength of thirty men, Beo- 
wulf gripped the monster. And Grendel, with 
rent sinews and bleeding body, fled away to the 
ocean cave where he had lived. And there in the 
cave, with the sea blood-stained and boiling above 
him, he died, outlawed for evil. 

In the second part of this poem Beowulf was 
living as king in his own land, and ruling like the 
great and brave king he was. But a huge old 
dragon who was guarding a treasure was robbed. 
So angry was the dragon that he left his heap of 
treasure and came down upon the land of King 
Beowulf, burning it and terrifying the people. 
Then Beowulf, who had become an old man, felt 
that he must fight to save his people. He went 

6 



THE FIRST ENGLISH HERO 

out and slew the dragon, but was himself scorched 
to death by the fiery breath of the dragon. 

'* Beowulf '' is the epic of our old EngUsh period. 
An epic is an heroic poem. In *' Beowulf the 
story of Beowulf's great deeds — such as his strug- 
gle with Grendel and Grenders mother — and of 
his death is told. Probably it was sung before 
the fifth century, when the English conquered 
Britain, for England itself is not mentioned in this 
wonderful poem. Indeed, the country described 
is that of the Goths of Sweden and of the Danes. 
Your geography will show you where Sweden 
and Denmark are. When the English forefathers 
came to England they brought this poem with 
them, perhaps in the form of short poems which 
were woven together b}^ a Christian Northum- 
brian poet in the eighth century or thereabouts. 

It will be interesting to see how this wild moor- 
land, over which Grendel stalked and over which 
the dreadful dragon dragged his length, became, 
with the cultivation of the land and advancing 
civilization, the gentle and beautiful dwelling of 
the fairies. The fairies will not live where it is 
too wild. 

Much is to be learned from this epic of the cus- 
toms and the manners of the men who came to 
Britain and conquered it. We can see these 
people as they lived in their sea-circled settle- 
ments, the ships they used to sail upon the sea, 
how their villages looked, and the boys and girls 

7 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

and grown-ups in them; the rocks and hills and 
ocean waves that made up their out-of-door world; 
the good times they had ; their games and amuse- 
ments. We come to know the respect that was 
given to their women; we see the bravery of the 
men in facing death, and we hear the songs they 
sang. 

''Beo^iilf " is a great poem — English literature 
knows no poem that is more sacred to it — but it 
is a sorro^-ful poem, too. These people believed 
in Fate, for Christ had not yet been brought to 
them with His message of love and peace and joy. 
English poetry to-day is much more joyous — be- 
cause it is Christian poetr}^ — than it ever could 
have been if England had remained a heathen 
land. Yet English poetr}' still has much in com- 
mon with ''Beowulf," in love of the sea and wor- 
ship of nature, and a strange sense of Fate. 

But we must close this door over which is 
wTitten Beowulf, for the Great Palace is full of 
many doors and many stories, and we have only 
just begun our journey from golden door to golden 
door. 



II 

WELSH MAGIC 

ON the other side of most of the golden doors 
through which we shall pass, our own tongue, 
English, is spoken. Yet in this wonderful palace, 
full of beautiful thoughts and beautiful expres- 
sion, there are two doors which when thrown 
open we may enter, but where our English would 
not be understood. They both admit us to the 
poems and prose of families of the same race — a 
race called Celtic. Over one door of this family, 
however, is written Cymric, and all that is Cymric 
is written and spoken in Welsh. On the other 
door is Gaelic, and all that is Gaelic is Irish and 
Scotch. And the Great Palace of English Litera- 
ture, with its innumerable golden doors, would 
not be at all the same palace if it were not for 
these two little doors, for out of them has come 
much that is best in poetry and prose. 

The Welsh were already in Britain when the so- 
called ''English'' landed on the island, and these 
English, after one hundred and fifty years, suc- 

9 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

ceeded in driving the Welsh, or Cymru. back to 
the mountains and coast on the west of the isl- 
and. There they Uved among the moimtains, 
holding fast to their customs and to their songs 
and poetty. And by and by, when it was time 
for this miracle to happen, the Uttle golden door 
over which was written C-ymriCj or Welsh, opened, 
and out of it there passed one of the most beau- 
tiful stor}'-cycles the world has ever known, the 
tales about King Arthur. But of this great story 
we shall hear later. 

This little golden door may be the oldest in 
all the palace, for long before the Arthur story 
was bom there were other tales which the Cymru 
loved. There is a word ''prehistoric'' which ac- 
curately describes some of these stories knowm as 
Mabinogion, which means, literally. Tales for the 
Children, or Little Ones. This famous book was 
translated from Welsh into Enghsh by Lady 
Charlotte Guest in 1838. Among the oldest of 
these tales is "Taliesin," which has behind it a 
prehistoric singer, a mythic singer. 

And now let us open that door over which is 
written Cymric, or Welsh, and look in. 

Long ago, at the beginning of King Arthur's time 
and the famous Roimd Table, there lived a man 
whose name was Tegid Voel. His vrife was called 
Caridwen. And there was bom to them a son, 
Avagddu, who was the ugliest boy in all the w^orld. 

10 



WELSH MAGIC 

When Caridwen looked at Avagddu, and knew 
beyond any doubt that he was the ugUest boy in 
all the world, she was much troubled. Therefore 
she decided to boil a caldron of Inspiration and 
Science for her son, so that Avagddu might hold 
an honorable position because of his knowledge. 

Caridwen filled the caldron and began to boil 
it, and all knew that it must not cease boiling for 
one year and a day — that is, until three drops of 
Inspiration had been distilled from it. Gwion 
Bach she put to stirring the caldron, and Morda, 
a blind man, was to keep the caldron boiling day 
and night for the whole year. And every day 
Caridwen gathered charm-bearing herbs and put 
them in to boil. 

And it was one day toward the close of the year 
that three drops of the liquid in the caldron flew 
out upon the finger of Gwion Bach, who was stir- 
ring the liquid. It burnt him, and he put his 
finger in his mouth. Because of the magic of 
those drops he knew all that was going to happen. 
And he was afraid of the wiles of Caridwen, and 
in fear he ran away. 

All the liquor in the caldron, except the three 
charm-bearing drops that had fallen upon the 
finger of Gwion Bach, was poisonous, and there- 
fore the caldron burst. When Caridwen saw 
the work of her whole year lost, she was angry 
and seized a stick of wood. With the stick she 
struck Morda on the head. 

II 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

*'Thou hast disfigured me wrongfully/' he said, 
''for I am innocent." 

*'Thou speakest truth/' she replied; *'it was 
Gwion Bach robbed me.'' 

And Caridwen went forth after Gwion Bach, 
running. 

When little Gwion saw her coming, because of 
the magic drops that had touched his finger, he 
was able to change himself into a hare. But 
thereupon Caridwen changed herself into a grey- 
hound, and there was a race fleeter almost than 
the wind. Caridwen was nearly upon him when 
little Gwion turned toward the river and becamie 
a fish. Then Caridwen changed herself from a 
greyhotmd into an otter, and chased little Gwion 
imder the water. So close was the chase that he 
had to turn himself into a bird of the air. Where- 
upon Caridwen became a hawk and followed him 
and gave him no rest in the sky. She was just 
swooping do\\Ti upon him, and little Gwion thought 
that the hour of his death had come, when he 
saw a heap of winnowed wheat on the floor of the 
bam, and he dropped into the wheat and turned 
himself into one of the grains. And then what 
do you think happened? Caridwen changed her- 
self into a high-crested black hen, hopped into the 
wheat, scratching it with her feet, found poor little 
Gwion Bach, who had once been a boy, then in 
turn became a rabbit, a flsh, a bird of the air, 
and was now a grain of wheat. 

12 



WELSH MAGIC 

Caridwen swallowed him! But so powerful 
was the magic of those three drops of Inspiration 
which had touched his finger, that little Gwion 
appeared in the world again, entering it as a 
beautiful child. And even Caridwen, because of 
his beauty, could not bear to kill him, so she 
wrapped him in a leathern bag and cast him into 
the sea. That was on the twenty-ninth day of 
April. 

Where Caridwen threw little Gwion into the 
sea was near the fishing-weir of Gwyddno by 
Aberstwyth. And even as Caridwen had the 
ugliest son in all the world, so had Gwyddno the 
most unlucky, and his name was Elphin. This 
year Gwyddno had told Elphin that he might 
have the drawing of the weir on May Eve. Usual- 
ly the fish they drew from the weir were worth 
about one hundred pounds in good English silver. 
His father thought that if luck were ever going 
to come to Elphin, it would come with the drawing 
of the weir on May Eve. 

But on the next day, when Elphin went to 
look, there was nothing in the weir except a 
leathern bag hanging on a pole. 

One of the men by the weir said to Elphin: 
**Now hast thou destroyed the virtue of the weir. 
There is nothing in it but this worthless bag.'' 

**How now,'* said Elphin, ** there may be in 
this bag the value of an hundred pounds.'' 

They took the bag down from the pole, and 
2 13 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

Elphin opened it, and as he opened it he saw the 
forehead of a beautiful boy. 

' ' Behold a radiant brow !' ' cried Elphin. * * Talie- 
sin shall he be called." 

Although Elphin lamented his bad luck at the 
weir, yet he carried the child home gently on 
his ambling horse. Suddenly the little boy be- 
gan to sing a song in which he told Elphin that 
the day would come when he would be of more 
service to him than the value of three hundred 
salmon. 

And this song of comfort was the first poem 
the little, radiant-browed Taliesin ever sang. But 
when Gwyddno, the father of Elphin, asked him 
what he was, he sang again and told the story of 
how he had fled in many shapes from Caridwen; 
as a frog, as a crow, as a chain, as a rose en- 
tangled in a thicket, as a wolf cub, as a thrush, 
as a fox, as a martin, as a squirrel, as a stag's 
antler, as iron in glowing fire, as a spear-head 
from the hand of one who fights, as a fierce 
bull, as a bristly boar, and in many other forms, 
only to be gobbled up in the end as a grain of 
wheat by a black hen. 

''What is this?'' said Gwyddno to his son 
Elphin. 

''It is a bard — a poet," the son answered. 

"Alas! what will he profit thee?" 

"I shall profit Elphin more than the weir has 
ever profited thee," answered Taliesin. 

14 



WELSH MAGIC 

And the little, radiant-browed boy began to 
sing another song: 

'^Wherefore should a stone be hard; 
Why should a thorn be sharp-pointed; 
Who is hard like flint; 
Who is salt like brine; 
Who is sweet like honey; 
Who rides in the gale?" 

Then bade he Elphin wager the King that he 
had a horse better and swifter than any of the 
King's horses. Thus Elphin did, and the King 
set the day and the time for the race at the place 
called the Marsh of Rhiannedd. And thither 
every one followed the King, who took with him 
four-and-twenty of his swiftest horses. 

The course was marked and the horses were 
placed for running. Then in came Taliesin with 
four-and-twenty twigs of holly, which he had 
burned black, and he put them in the belt of the 
youth who was to ride Elphin's horse. He told 
this youth to let all the King's horses get ahead 
of him; but as he overtook one horse after the 
other he was to take one of the burnt twigs of 
holly and strike the horse over the crupper, then 
let the twig fall. This the youth who rode El- 
phin's horse was to do to each of the King's 
horses as he overtook it, and he was to watch 
where his own horse should stumble, and throw 
down his cap on that spot. 

IS 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

Thereupon the youth who rode Elphin's horse, 
and all the King's riders, pricked forth upon their 
steeds, their horses with bridles of linked gold 
on their heads, and gold saddles upon their backs. 
And the racing horses with their shell-formed 
hoofs cast up sods, so swiftly did they run, like 
swallows in the air. Blades of grass bent not be- 
neath the fleet, light hoofs of the coursers. 

Elphin's horse won the race. Taliesin brought 
Elphin, when the race was over, to the place where 
the horse had stumbled and where the youth had 
thrown down his cap as he had been told. Elphin 
did as Taliesin bade him and put workmen to dig 
a hole in this spot. And when they had dug the 
ground deep enough, there was found a large 
caldron full of gold. 

Then said Taliesin : ' ' Elphin, behold ! See what 
I give thee for having taken me out of the weir 
and the leathern bag! Is this not worth more to 
thee than three hundred salmon?'' 

In the Mahinogion stories, first collected and 
set down some time in the twelfth century, we 
live in a world of enchantment and fairies. Those 
tales are full of gold — the gold of a wondrous 
imagination. It would be nice if we could keep 
this door, over which is written Welsh, open long 
enough so that I might tell you the story of 
Pryderi, too, and how Pryderi found a castle 
where no castle had ever been, how he entered 

i6 



WELSH MAGIC 

it and saw ''In the center of the castle floor . . . 
a fountain with marble-work around it, and on 
the margin of the fountain a golden bowl on a 
marble slab, and chains hanging from the air, 
to which he saw no end/' What happened to 
him when he seized this cup, how the castle faded 
away, how the heroes of the story were changed 
to mice — for none of this can we hold open the 
golden door any longer. The ends of the golden 
chains of many a story are not to be seen by us. 



Ill 



THE BATTLE AT THE FORD 

IT is interesting to think, is it not, that if it 
had not been for those two Uttle Celtic doors 
of gold over one of which was written Cymric, 
or Welsh, and over the other, Gaelic, or Irish, 
our Great Palace of English Literature could not 
have been the same palace, nor half so beautiful. 
It is not only that there would not have been so 
many wonderful golden doors leading into story- 
land, but the stories themselves would not have 
been told in the same way. The Scotch, too, who 
belong to the Celtic fa^uly, are almost as great 
story-tellers as the Weish and Irish. 

When the Roman Tacitus wrote about the 
Welsh and Irish he said, ''Their language differs 
little.'' And even their buildings, Caesar said, 
were ''almost similar.'' What was true of their 
speech and their buildings was more true of the 
gifts they have left in the Great Palace. They 
have the same delightful way of telling a story; 

i8 



THE BATTLE AT THE FORD 

what they have to say naturally falls into con- 
versations, and they are quick as a wink in the 
wit and fun and beauty and sadness of what 
they do say. 

This little golden door and the wonderful room 
beyond it were, perhaps, longer in being built 
than the Welsh. These stories and poems of the 
Irish were composed at the time of Caesar and the 
Christian era. The epic cycle of Conchubar and 
Cuchulain is the first group of tales in Irish litera- 
ture. They are made up of prose with occasional 
verses here and there. The Irish are very clever 
at invention, and these stories are among the 
most wonderful ever written or sung. Among the 
best of these stories is one we shall open a door 
to listen to — the story of Ferdiad and Cuchulain 
in ''The Battle at the Ford." 

The dialogue in ''The Battle at the Ford'' shows 
us plainly how great the Irish dramatic gift has 
always been. They were born makers of plays. 
Just see how the Irish genius makes Ferdiad and 
Cuchulain talk, and how lifelike they are! The 
story is there, not much changed from what it 
was two thousand years ago, and shows all the 
Irish sense of form. By sense of form is meant 
simply the story's way of expressing itself. You 
see, a story or poem is like a human being. It has 
not only thoughts, but also a body to hold these 
thoughts. It is because of these two golden doors, 
over which are written the words, Welsh, Irish, 

19 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

that English Literature is likely to produce most 
of the great plays which will be acted, and most 
of the great novels. 

Even' Christian and Jewish boy and girl knows 
the Bible story of David and Jonathan — that 
Jonathan who loved David as his soul, and David 
who loved Jonathan more than a brother can 
love. This friendship of a king's son with the 
son of a shepherd was ver}' beautiful and tender 
and pure. "The Battle at the Ford" is not so 
gentle a stor}', but it is, nevertheless, and despite 
the treacher}" of the Queen and the sad end of 
Ferdiad, the David and Jonathan story of Irish 
Literature. 

The men of Ireland settled it that Ferdiad and 
Cuchulain should fight the next day. But when 
they sent messengers to fetch Ferdiad he would 
not come, for he learned that they wanted him 
to fight against his friend Cuchulain. 

Then ^laeve, the Queen, sent the Druids after 
him, who by their hurtful poems about Ferdiad 
should raise three bUsters on his face — the bHsters 
of Shame, Blemish, and Reproach. 

So Ferdiad had to come to answer the Queen, 
Maeve. She offered him great riches if he would 
fight against his friend Cuchulain — speckled 
satins and silver and gold, with lands, horses, and 
bridles. 

But to Maeve Ferdiad repHed, *'If you offered 

20 



THE BATTLE AT THE FORD 

me land and sea I would not take them without 
the sun and moon.'* 

For he loved his friend Cuchulain so that there 
was no wealth which could tempt Ferdiad to go 
out against him to wound him. 

*'But/' said Maeve, *'you shall have your fill 
of the jewels of the earth. Here is my brooch 
with its hooked pin and my daughter, Findabair.'' 

''Nay/' answered Ferdiad, ''these things and 
all things like unto them shall remain yours, for 
there is nothing I would take to go into battle 
against my friend Cuchulain. Nothing shall 
come between him and me — he who is the half 
of my heart without fault, and I the half of his 
own heart. By my spear, were Cuchulain killed, 
I would be buried in his grave — the one grave for 
the two of us! Misfortime on you, Maeve, mis- 
fortune on you for trying to put your face between 
us!" 

Then Maeve considered how she should stir 
him up and thus get her own ends. 

Aloud she said to her people, "Is it a true word 
Cuchulain spoke?'' 

"What word was that?" asked Ferdiad, sharply. 

"He said," answered Maeve, "that there would 
be no wonder in it did you fall in the first trial 
of arms against him." 

Then was Ferdiad angry. "That had Cu- 
chulain no right to say ! If it be true he said this 
thing, then will I fight with him to-morrow!" 

21 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

At that Fergus left Ferdiad and Maeve, and 
went out in his chariot to tell Cuchulain what 
had happened. 

**I give my word/' exclaimed Cuchulain, *'for 
my friend to come against me is not my wish!'' 

*'Ferdiad's anger is stirred up," said Fergus, 
''and he has no fear of you." 

*'Be quiet," replied Cuchulain, ''for I can 
stand against him anywhere!" 

"It will go hard with you getting the better 
of him," answered Fergus, "for he has the strength 
of a hundred." 

"My word and oath," said Cuchulain, "it is 
I who will be victorious over Ferdiad." 

Then went Fergus joyfully back to the encamp- 
ment. But Ferdiad, gloomy and heavy-hearted, 
slept only through the early part of the night. 
Toward the end of night he told his driver to 
harness his horses. 

"Ferdiad," said the driver, "it would be better 
for you to stop here, for grief will come of that 
meeting with Cuchulain." 

Yet the chariot was yoked and they went for- 
ward to the ford, and day and its full light came 
upon them there. Then Ferdiad slept while he 
waited for the coming of Cuchulain. 

With the full light of day Cuchulain himself 
rose up, and said to his driver, "Laeg, yoke the 
chariot, for the man who comes to meet us to-day 
is an early riser." 

22 



THE BATTLE AT THE FORD 

*'The horses are harnessed," answered Laeg. 

With that Cuchulain leaped into the chariot, 
and about him shouted the people of the gods of 
Dana, and the witches and the fairies. 

Then Ferdiad's driver heard them coming, the 
straining of the harness, the creaking of the 
chariot, the ringing of the armor and the shields, 
and the thtmder of the horses' hoofs. 

''Good Ferdiad,'' said the driver, laying his 
hand upon his master, ' 'rise up. Cuchulain comes, 
and he is coming not slowly, but quick as the wind 
or as water from a high cliff or like swift thunder." 

And they saw Cuchulain coming, swooping 
down on them like a hawk from a cliff on a day 
of hard wind. Cuchulain drew up on the north 
vSide of the ford. 

''I am happy at your coming," said Ferdiad. 

"Till this day would I have been glad to hear 
that welcome," answered Cuchulain; "but now 
it is no longer the welcome of a friend." 

Then each spoke unfriendly words and each 
began to boast. 

"Before the setting of the sun to-night," said 
Ferdiad, "you will be fighting as with a mountain, 
and it is not white that battle will be." 

"You are fallen into a gap of danger," answered 
Cuchulain, "and the end of your life has come." 

"Leave off your boasting," shouted Ferdiad, 
"you heart of a bird in a cage, you giggling fel- 
low." 

23 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

But to this Cuchulain replied, *'You were my 
heart companion, you were my people, you were 
my family — I never found one who was dearer." 

*'What is the use of this talk?" asked Ferdiad. 

*'Good Ferdiad," answered Cuchulain, *'it is 
not right for you to come out against me through 
the meddling of Maeve. Do not break your oath 
not to fight with me. De not break friendship. 
We w^ere heart companions, comrades, and shar- 
ing one bed." 

And Ferdiad answered : * ' Do not be remember- 
ing our companionship, for it will not protect you 
this day. It is I will give you your first wounds." 

Then began they with their casting weapons — 
their round-handled spears and their little quill 
spears and their ivory-hilted knives and their 
ivory-hafted spears, and these weapons were fly- 
ing to and fro like bees on the wing on a summer's 
day. Yet good ,as the throwing was, the defense 
was better, and neither hurt the other. There 
was no cast that did not hit the protecting shields, 
and by noon their weapons were all blunted 
against the faces and bosses of the shields. 

So they left these weapons and took to their 
straight spears. And from the middle of mid- 
day till the fall of evening each threw spears at 
the other. But good as the defense was, in that 
time each wotmded the other. 

**Let us leave this, now," said Ferdiad. 

Then each came to the other and put his hands 

24 



THE BATTLE AT THE FORD 

around the neck of the other and gave him three 
kisses. And that night one inclosure held their 
horses and at one fire sat their chariot-drivers. 
And of every heaUng herb that was put on Cuchu- 
lain's wounds Cuchulain sent an equal share 
westward across the ford for the wounds of Fer- 
diad. And of food and drink Ferdiad sent a fair 
share northward to Cuchulain and his men. 

And in the morning they rose up and came to 
the ford of battle. 

''What weapons shall we use to-day?" asked 
Cuchulain. 

''To-day is your choice, for I made the choice 
yesterday/' answered Ferdiad. 

"Then let us take our great broad spears, for 
so by the end of evening shall we be nearer the 
end of the fight.'' 

From the twilight of the early morning till the 
fall of evening each cut at and wounded the other, 
till, were it the custom of birds in their fiight to 
pass through the bodies of men, they might have 
done so on this day. 

"Let us stop from this, now," said Cuchulain, 
"for our horses and men are tired and down- 
hearted. Let us put the quarrel away for a 
while." 

So they threw their spears into the hands of 
their chariot-drivers, and each put his hand 
around the neck of the other and gave him three 
kisses. And that night they slept on wounded 

25 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

men's pillows their chariot-drivers had made for 
them. A full share of every charm and spell used 
to cure the wounds of Cuchulain was sent to 
Ferdiad. And of food Ferdiad sent a share. 

Again early on the morrow they came to the 
ford of battle, and there was a dark look on Fer- 
diad that day. 

**It is bad you are looking to-day," said Cuchu- 
lain. 

**It is not from fear or dread of you I am look- 
ing this way,'* answered Ferdiad. 

''No one has ever put food to his lips, Ferdiad, 
and no one has ever been bom for whose sake I 
would have hurt you.'* 

''Cuchulain,'' cried Ferdiad, "it was not you, 
but Maeve, who has betrayed us, and now my 
word and my name will be worth nothing if I 
go back without doing battle with you." 

And that day they fought with their swords, 
and each hacked at the other from dawn till 
evening. When they threw their swords from 
them into the hands of their chariot-drivers, their 
parting that night was sad and down-hearted. 

Early the next morning Ferdiad rose up and 
went by himself to the ford, and there clad him- 
self in his shirt of striped silk with its border of 
speckled gold, over that a coat of brown leather, 
and on his head a crested helmet of battle. Tak- 
ing his strong spear in his right hand and sword 
in his left, he began to show off very cunningly, 

26 



THE BATTLE AT THE FORD 

wonderful feats that were made up that day by 
himself against Cuchulain. 

But when Cuchulain came to the ford, it was 
his turn to choose the weapons for the day. And 




KINGS IN ARMOR 

MS. Camb. Univ, Lihr. Ee. in, 59 
c. A.D. 1245 



they fought all the morning. By midday the 

anger of each was hot upon him, and Cuchulain 

leaped up onto the bosses of Ferdiad's shield, but 

Ferdiad tossed him from him like a bird on the 

brink of the ford, or as foam is thrown from a 

wave. Then did Cuchulain leap with the quick- 

27 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

ness of the wind and the lightness of a swallow, 
and lit on the boss of Ferdiad's shield. But Fer- 
diad shook his shield and cast Cuchulain from him. 
Cuchulain's anger came on him like flame; and 
so close was the fight that their shields were 
broken and loosened, that their spears were bent 
from their points to their hilts; and so close was 
the fight that they drove the river from its bed, 
and that their horses broke away in fear and 
madness. 

Then Ferdiad gave Cuchulain a stroke of the 
sword and hid it in his body. And Cuchulain 
took his spear, Gae Bulg, cast it at Ferdiad, and 
it passed through his body so that the point 
could be seen. 

*'0 Cuchulain," cried Ferdiad, when Gae 
Bulg pierced him, *'it was not right that I should 
fall by your hand ! My end is come, my ribs will 
not hold my heart. I have not done well in the 
battle.'' 

Then Cuchulain ran toward him and put his 
two arms about him, and laid him by the ford 
northward. And he began to keen and lament: 
''What are joy and shouting to me now? It 
is to madness I am driven after the thing I have 
done. O Ferdiad, there will never be bom among 
the men of Connaught who will do deeds equal to 
yours! 

*'0 Ferdiad, you were betrayed to your death! 
You to die, I to be living. Our parting for ever 

28 



THE BATTLE AT THE FORD 

is a grief for ever! We gave our word that to the 
end of time we wotild not go against each other. 

**Dear to me was your beautiful ruddiness, dear 
to me your comely form, dear to me your clear 
gray eye, dear your wisdom and your talk, and dear 
to me our friendship! 

**It was not right you to fall by my hand; it 
was not a friendly ending. My grief! I loved 
the friend to whom I have given a drink of red 
blood. O Ferdiad, this thing will hang over me 
for ever! Yesterday you were strong as a moun- 
tain. And now there is nothing but a shadow!" 



IV 

CiEDMON THE COWHERD 

AVERY great modem poet, Coleridge, who 
wrote *'The Ancient Mariner,'' said that 
prose was words in their best order, but that 
poetry was the best words in their best order. This 
is a simple and good definition of poetry. Yet 
there is even more than best words in their best 
order in the room beyond the door over which 
is written Poetry. Perhaps, however, beautiful 
words in their best order would always teach us 
to find what is beautiful and to love the good. I 
do not know. Do you? 

Caedmon's poem, written about 670, marks the 
beginning of English poetry in Great Britain, for 
*' Beowulf was first sung in another land — the 
land of the conquerors of England — ^before it was 
brought to British soil. The verses of Caedmon's 
poetry are as stormy as the sea which beats at 
the bottom of the cliffs of Whitby, on which rose 
the monastery of Streoneshalh. Caedmon was at 
first a servant in this monastery, but when the 

30 



CiEDMON THE COWHERD 

power to sing came to him it lifted not only 
Caedmon himself to something better than he 
had been ; it has also lifted men and women ever 
since to better ways of thinking and feeling and 
to greater happiness than they would ever have 
had without English poetry. Bede, who wrote 
about Caedmon, said, ''He did not learn the art 
of poetry from men, nor of men, but from God/' 
Caedmon sang many songs, chiefly songs about 
stories in the Bible. Our first poetry was religious. 
''Dark and true and tender is the north,'' and 
true and tender is all great English poetry since 
that most precious of all the golden doors was 
thrown open in the Great Palace of English 
Literature. 

Almost more interesting than the stories which 
Caedmon resung for the world is the story of the 
way the gift of song came to Caedmon. 

One day a little boy stood by a fishing-boat 
from which he had just leaped. He dug his toe 
in the sand and looked up to the edge of the 
rocky cliff above him. 

"What dost see, lad?" said his uncle, who was 
tossing his catch of fish to the sand; "creatures 
of the mist in the clouds yonder?" 

"Nay, uncle," answered Finan, "there is no 
Grendel in the clouds. Last night at the Hall a 
man sang to the harp that Grendel was a moor- 
treader. Also he told of the deeds of the hero 

31 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

Beowulf, and he said that Beowulf had killed 
Grendel." 

Finan's eyes were on the distant moor, which 
was the color of flame in the evening light. Al- 
ready twinkling above were little stars bright as 
the sheen of elves. There, he knew, for every- 
body said so, lived elf and giant and monster. 
There in the moor pools lived the water-elves. 
Across its flame of heather strode mighty march- 
gangers like Grendel, and in the dark places of 
the mountains lived a dragon, crouched above his 
pile of gold and treasure. 

There stood the miraculous tree, of great size, 
on which were carved the figures of beasts and 
birds and strange letters which told what gods 
the heathen worshiped before the gentle religion 
of Christ was brought to England. There lived 
the Wolf-Man, too, so friendless and wild that he 
became the comrade of the wolves which howled 
in those dark places. There lived a bear, old and 
terrible, and the wild boar rooting up acorns with 
his huge curved tusks. 

Nearer the village was the wolf's-head tree — 
more terrible tree than any in the mysteries of 
forest and fen-land. This was the gallows on 
which the village folk hung those who did evil. 
Finan could see the tree where it stood alone in 
the sunset light. And he heard the rough cawing 
of ravens as they settled down into its dark 
branches to roost. 

32 



C.EDMON THE COWHERD 

*'Caw, caw/' croaked one raven, ''ba-a-d man, 
ba-ad man.'* 

*'Caw, caw,'' sang another raven, ''ba-ad." 

Then they flapped their wings and settled to 
their sleep. 

''Uncle," Finan said, "I will go up the cliff- 
side." 

The fisherman looked up. He heard the chant- 
ing from the church, and saw an immense white 
cross upright on the cliff's edge. But he knew 
not of what adventure little Finan was thinking. 

"Aye," he said, "go. Perhaps you will see the 
blessed Hild." 

So it came about that little Finan climbed the 
cliff on that evening which was to prove a night 
wonderful in its miracle. There was bom that 
night that which, like the love of Christ, has made 
children's lives better and happier. 

Finan reached the top of the cliff by those 
steps which were cut into it, and then took the 
main road, paved and straight, which led toward 
the Great Hall. He went along slowly under 
the apple-trees. He saw a black-haired Welsh 
woman draw water. Little children not so big 
as Finan were sitting on the steps by their mothers, 
who were spinning in their doorways. He passed 
a dog gnawing a bone flung to it for its supper. 

A cobbler, laying by his tools, looking up, saw 
Finan and greeted him. A jeweler was fixing 
ornaments on a huge horn he had polished. Car- 

33 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

penters were leaving a little cottage which they 
were building. The road was full of men — swine- 
herds and cowherds, plowboys and wood-choppers 
from the forests beyond, gardeners and shepherds 
— all on their way to the Great Hall. Some men 
there were in armor, too, their long hair floating 
over their shoulders. 

Inside the windows, which in those days con- 
tained no window-glass, torches and firelight 
would soon begin to flame, and mead would be 
passed. Already a loud horn was calling all who 
would to come. 

Suddenly something sharp stabbed Finan, and 
he cried out. 

A man, a woman, and a little child came rush- 
ing from one of the household yards, flapping 
their garments and screaming: ** The bees! The 
bees!" 

They had just found their precious hive empty. 
The bees had swarmed, and unless they could 
find them there would be no more sweet-smelling 
mead made from honey in that household that 
year. 

Another bee stung Finan. And there they were 
clinging to a low apple bough just above his 
head. They hung in a great cluster, like a bunch 
of dark grapes. 

''Dame,'' said a cowherd, who was in the road, 
to the people who were crying out for their bees, 
*' yonder lad knows where the bees are.'* 

34 



C^DMON THE COWHERD 

Finan rubbed his head and looked up at the 
angry, humming swarm. 

**Aye/' he said, and laughed. 

*' Throw gravel on the swarming bees," called 
the cowherd, Casdmon. 

The man and woman and Finan took handfuls 
of gravel from the roadside and flung them over 
the bees, and sang again and again, ** Never to 
the wood, fly ye wildly more!" 

Then they laughed, and the bees swarmed. 

*'Now,'' said Caedmon, who was a wise cow- 
herd, *'hang veneria on the hive, and if ye would 
have them safe lay on the hive a plant of madder. 
Then can naught lure them away.'' 

When they reached the Hall folk were already 
eating inside. Little Finan saw Caedmon go in 
quietly, for C^dmon was attached to the Abbess 
Hild's monastery and had a right to go in and 
eat. Inside they were singing for the sake of 
mirth, and the torches and fireHght were flaming. 

Through the open window — for windows were 
always open then, and the word window meant 
literally *' wind-eye'' — Finan saw the harp being 
passed from one to another. 

They sang many songs as the harp passed from 
hand to hand, songs of war and songs of home. 

But v/hen the harp was passed to Caedmon, 
who had charmed the bees, he shook his head 
sorrowfully, saying that he could not sing, and 
got up sad and ashamed and went out. 

3S 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

Little Finan wanted to shout through the win- 
dow to him to sing about the bees. He did not 
dare, for he was afraid of being discovered. In- 
stead he followed behind Caedmon. He wished 
to ask him why he could not sing. This he did 
not dare to do, either, but he went on to the fold 
where the cowherd had gone to care for the 
cattle. And there on the edge of the fold the little 
boy, unseen by the cowherd, fell asleep. Shortly 
afterward C^dmon, too, fell asleep. 

It must have been near the middle of the night 
when the stars one and all were shining and danc- 
ing with the sheen of millions and millions of 
elves, and the sea down below the cliff was sing- 
ing a mighty luUabye, that little Finan started 
wide awake, hearing a voice speak. 

''Caedmon," spoke a man who stood beside the 
sleeping cowherd, ''sing me something." 

Caedmon drowsily answered : " I cannot sing any- 
thing. Therefore went I away from the mirth and 
came here, for I know not how to sing.'' 

Again the mysterious stranger spoke. "Yet 
you could sing." 

And Finan heard the sleep-bound voice of 
Caedmon ask, "What shall I sing?" 

"Sing to me," said the stranger, "the beginning 
of all things." 

And at once Caedmon began to sing in a strong 
voice, and very beautifully, the praise of God 
who made this world. And his song had all the 

36 



CiEDMON THE COWHERD 

beat of sea waves in it — sometimes little waves 
that lapped gently on the shore and bore in beau- 
tiful shells and jeweled seaweed. But more often 
its rhythm was as mighty as ocean waves that 
tossed big ships. 

Then the wondering stranger, hearing the 
beauty of the song, vanished. Caedmon awoke 
from his sleep, and he remembered all that he had 
sung and the vision that had come to him. And 
he was glad. He arose and went to the Abbess 
Hild to tell her what had happened to him, the 
least of her servants. 

In the presence of many wise men did Hild 
bid Caedmon tell his dream and sing his verses. 
And he did as he was told, and it was plain to 
all that an angel had visited Caedmon. The 
Abbess Hild took him into the monastery, and 
she ordered that everything be done for him. 
And Caedmon became the first and one of the 
greatest of English poets. And even as Christ 
was bom in a manger in Bethlehem, English poe- 
try was bom in a cattle-fold in a town which was 
called Streoneshalh, which rneans **Bay of the 
Beacon.'' And to mankind since Caedmon, the 
first English poet, English song has been a beacon 
to all the world. 

If you open a book written in the English of 
to-day, it is easy to read it— just as easy as to 
understand the speech we use among one an- 

37 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

other. But the English of fifteen or sixteen hun- 
dred years ago would be difficult to read. There 
is an illustration of this English in a line from 
''Deor's Lament": 

Thas ofer code, thisses swa maeg. 

It is easy to pick this out word for word, and see 
that it means, ''That was overcome (or over- 
passed), so may this be." The English in that 
Great Palace, some of whose doors are more than 
twelve hundred years old, is the same English, 
just as the oak-tree two hundred years old is the 
same oak-tree, though different, that it was when 
planted. But you would find it difficult to read 
the English in which Caedmon wrote his great 
poems. 

Old English poetry, too, seems as different 
from the poetry of to-day as the language we speak 
seems different from the language they used to 
speak. For one thing, old English poetry did 
not have rhymes. 

Little lamb, who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee, 
Gave thee Hfe and bade thee feed 
By the stream and o'er the mead; 
Gave thee clothing of dehght. 
Softest clothing, woolly, bright; 
Gave thee such a tender voice, 
Making all the vales rejoice? 

Little lamb, who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 

38 



CiEDMON THE COWHERD 

This poem was written somewhat over a hundred 
years ago by William Blake, but it is modem and 
part of that brightest and most beautiful room of 
all English poetry — Nineteenth Century Poetry. 
What is a rhyme? You can tell if you will study 
this stanza from '*The Lamb/' You will see 
that ''thee'' of the first line rhymes with ''thee" 
of the second, that ''feed'* and "mead" rhyme, 
and that "delight" and "bright" rhyme just as 
"voice" and "rejoice." Old English poetry was 
different, too, in that it did not count the syllables 
in a line of poetry. If you drum on the table and 
count the syllables of the first and second lines, 
you will see that each has six, and the following 
six lines have seven syllables each, and the last 
two six each. Then if you drum a little more 
you will see that each of the first two lines has 
three accents or stresses, and the following six 
four accents or stresses each. 

Then, you ask, what was this old English poe- 
try like? Even if the syllables were not counted 
and there was no rhyme, it had accents just as 
our modem poetry has. Every line was divided 
into half verses by a pause, as, for example: 

Warriors of winters young with words spake. 

There are two accented syllables in the first half 
of this line, and one in the second. And now, in- 
stead of rhyme, what do you think the old English 

39 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

poetry had? Alliteration. That is a big word, 
but it is not nearly so difficult as it seems, for it 
means simply the repetition of the same letter at 
the beginning of two or more words. Here it is, 
the letter **w'* that is repeated. It was poetry 
with alliteration and stress which little Finan 
heard on that night so long ago when the angel 
came to Caedmon and commanded him to sing. 



V 

THE SHEPHERD OF LAUDERDALE 

AFTER Caedmon's day there were more and 
>- more religious poets. Very often the men who 
wrote the poetry and prose during the time of 
Caedmon and of Cuthbert Uved in monasteries, 
where the Ufe was a reHgious Hfe. In the Great 
Palace of English Literature there is a pretty 
story told about Ealdhelm, who was a young man 
when Caedmon died. This young man later be- 
came the Abbot of Malmesbury. He was not 
only a religious poet, but he also made songs and 
could sing them to music. He traveled from town 
to town, and, finding that the men at the fairs did 
not come to church as they should, he would stand 
on the bridge and sing songs to them in the Eng- 
lish tongue, persuading them thus to come to hear 
the word of God. Living at this same time — that 
is, during the latter half of the seventh century — 
was St. Cuthbert, not so great a scholar as Eald- 
helm, but as great a wanderer. 

There is a little valley between England and 
Scotland called Lauderdale — a little valley wa- 

41 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

tered by a river which flows into the Tweed. 
There Cuthbert did not keep the flocks of his 
father as did David, yet, like David, he was a 
warrior lad. Day and night Cuthbert lived in 
the open, shepherding the sheep of many masters. 

There was not among the lads of that time 
a boy more active, more daring than Cuthbert. 
He could walk on his hands, turn somersaults, 
fight boldly, and become a victor in almost every 
race. There was no other boy so active but that 
Cuthbert was better at games and sports. And 
when all the others were tired he would ask 
whether there was not some one who could go on 
playing. Then suddenly a swelling came on his 
knee and the poor little boy could play no longer, 
and had to be carried in and out, up and down, by 
attendants. This continued until one day a horse- 
man, clothed in white garments and riding a horse 
of incomparable beauty, appeared before the sick 
boy and cured his knee. Little Cuthbert was now 
able to walk about once more, but never again did 
he play the games he used to play. 

Not far from where Cuthbert lived was the 

monastery of Tiningham, by the mouth of the 

river Tyne. Some of the monks were bringing 

down on rafts wood which they had spent a long 

time felling and sawing up. They were almost 

opposite the monastery and were just about to 

draw the wood to the shore, when a great wind 

came up from the west and drove the rafts out 

42 



THE SHEPHERD OF LAUDERDALE 

toward the sea. There were five of them, and so 
quickly did they drift away that it was not more 
than a few minutes before they began to look in 
the distance as small as five little birds. Those 
upon the rafts were in much danger of losing their 
lives. Those in the monastery came out and 
prayed upon the shore for them. But the five 
rafts that now looked like the tiniest of birds 
went on drifting out to sea. And the populace, 
which had been heathens very lately, began to 
jest at the monks because their prayers were in 
vain. 

Then said Cuthbert: ''Friends, you do wrong 
to speak evil of those you see hurried away to 
death. Would it not be better to pray for their 
safety?^' 

* ' No !* ' shouted the people, angrily. ' ' They took 
away our old worship, and you can see that noth- 
ing comes of the new.'' 

At this the yoimg Cuthbert began to pray, 
bowing his head to the ground. And the winds 
were turned around and brought the rafts in 
safety to the shore of the monastery. 

Like David, this boy Cuthbert was very near 
to God, and one night, while keeping the sheep 
of his masters, he saw angels descending from 
heaven. Cuthbert was on a remote mountain 
with other shepherds, and keeping not only his 
sheep, but also the vigil of prayer, when a light 
streamed down from heaven and broke the thick 

43 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

darkness. Then Cuthbert made up his mind to 
ser\'e God by entering a monaster}'. 

One day he was on a journey on horseback 
when he was not quite fifteen years old. He 
turned aside to the farmstead which he saw at 
some distance, and entered the house of a very 
good woman. He wanted to rest himseh'. But 
even more he wanted to get food for his horse. 
The woman urged him to let her prepare dinner 
for him. But Cuthbert would not eat, for it was 
a fast -day. 

"Consider," said the woman, ''that on your 
journey you will find no village nor habitation of 
man; for indeed a long journey is before you, 
nor can you possibh' accompUsh it before simset. 
^Tierefore, I beg of you to take some food before 
setting out, lest you be obHged to fast all day, or 
perhaps even until to-morrow." 

But Cuthbert would not break his fast. Xight 
came on and he saw that he could not finish his 
jotimey, and there was no house anywhere in 
which to take shelter. As he went on, however, 
he noticed some shepherds' huts which had been 
roughly thrown together in the stmimer. He en- 
tered one of these to pass the night there, tied 
his horse to the wall, and set before the horse a 
btmdle of hay to eat. Suddenly Cuthbert noticed 
that his horse was raising his head and pulling 
at the thatching of the hut. And as the horse 
drew the thatch down there fell out also a folded 

44 



THE SHEPHERD OF LAUDERDALE 

napkin. In the napkin was wrapped the half of 
a loaf of bread, yet warm, and a piece of meat — 
enough for Cuthbert's supper. 

At last, followed by his squire, and with his 
lance in hand, the youthful shepherd-warrior, 
then but fifteen years old, appeared before the 
gates of the monastery of Melrose. For Cuth- 
bert had decided to serve God in a religious life 
rather than upon the battle-field. 

There was not a village so far away, or a moun- 
tain so steep, or a cottage so poverty-stricken, but 
that the boy Cuthbert, strong and energetic, 
visited it. Most often he traveled on horseback; 
but there were places so rough and wild they were 
not to be reached on horseback. These places 
along the coast he visited in a boat. Cuthbert 
thought nothing of hunger and thirst and cold. 
From the Solway to the Forth he covered Scot- 
land with his pilgrimages. This, of course, was 
in the seventh century — a long time ago — ^yet 
stories are still told there of the wonderful work 
of Cuthbert. 

While he was young in the life of the monastery 
it was Cuthbert's good fortune to entertain an 
angel unawares, as, perhaps, we all do sometimes. 
At the monastery Cuthbert, so pleasant and win- 
ning were his manners, was appointed guest- 
master. Going out one morning from the inner 
buildings of the monastery to the guest-chamber, 
he found a young man seated there. He wel- 
4 45 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

corned him with the usual forms of kindness, gave 
him water to wash his hands, himself bathed his 
feet and wiped them with a towel and warmed 
them. He begged the yoimg man not to go for- 
ward on his journey until the third hour, when he 
might have breakfast. He thought the stranger 
must have been wearied by the night journey and 
the snow. But the stranger was very unwilling 
to stay until Cuthbert urged him in the Divine 
Name. Immediately after the prayers of tierce — 
or the third hour — were said, Cuthbert laid the 
table and offered the stranger food. 

''Refresh thyself, master, until I return with 
some new bread, for I expect it is ready baked 
by this time.'' 

But when he returned the guest whom he had 
left at the table had gone. Although a recent 
snowfall had covered the ground, and Cuthbert 
looked for his footprints, none were to be found. 
On entering the room again, there came to him 
a very sweet odor, and he saw lying beside him 
three loaves of bread, warm and of unwonted 
whiteness and beauty. 

*'Lo,'' said Cuthbert, **this was an angel of 
God who came to feed and not to be fed. These 
are such loaves as the earth cannot produce, for 
they surpass lilies in whiteness, roses in smell, and 
honey in flavor." 

By all human beings and creatures was Cuth- 
bert beloved. He usually spent the greater part 

46 



THE SHEPHERD OF LAUDERDALE 

of the night in prayer. One night one of the 
brothers of the monastery followed him to find 
out where he went when he left the monastery. 
St. Cuthbert went out to the shore and entered 
the cold water of the sea till it was up to his arms 
and neck. And there in praises, with the sotmd 
of the waves in his ears, he spent the night. 
When dawn was drawing near he came out of the 
water and finished his prayer upon the shore. 
While he was doing this two seals came from out 
of the depths of the sea, warmed his feet with 
their breath and dried them with their hair. 
And when Cuthbert's feet were warm and dry 
he stood up and blessed the seals and sent them 
back into the sea, wherein these humble creatures 
swam about praising God. 



VI 

THE BOY WHO WON A PRIZE 

YOU know what sort of stories Bede was fond 
of telling — of course in Latin. If you should 
be asked with whom English prose began, I think 
it would be safe to say, ''With Bede, who wrote 
the life of St. Cuthbert and the Ecclesiastical 
History.'' But that is not why you should say 
that Bede began English prose, but because at 
his death he was busy finishing a book written in 
English and called Translation of the Gospel of 
St. John. 

When his last day came the good old man called 
all his scholars about him. 

*' There is still a chapter wanting,'' said the 
youth who always took down all of Bede's dicta- 
tion, *'and it is hard for thee to question thyself 
longer." 

''It is easily done," answered Bede; ''take thy 
pen and write quickly." 

And all day long they wrote. 

When twilight came the boy cried out, "There 
is still one sentence unwritten, dear master." 

48 



THE BOY WHO WON A PRIZE 

''Write it quickly," answered the master. 

*'It is finished now/' said the boy. 

''Thou sayest truth/' came the answer, **all is 
finished now/' 

Singing the praise of God, his scholars and the 
boy scribe about him, he died. Alas that this 
English book that he bravely finished has been 
lost! 

Bede was bom about 673 and lived most of his 
life in the monastery at Jarrow in Northumbria 
in the north of England. With Bede's death the 
home of English prose literature was changed 
from the north to the south, from Northumbria 
to Wessex, where there lived a noble boy called 
Alfred. Asser, the man who was his secretary 
after the boy grew up, has written a life of Alfred. 

From the very first this little boy was full of 
promise and very attractive. This fact is rather 
hard on some of us, is it not, who find it difficult 
to be good and to win the confidence of grown- 
up people. But the confidence of others is pre- 
cisely what the boy Alfred did win, and it was 
not because he was a molly-coddle, for no young 
prince ever swung a battle-ax more lustily than 
did Alfred. 

When he was a little bit of a chap only five 
years old, he was taken to Rome to see the Pope. 
Alfred was bom in 849 at the town of Wantage, 
so you know what year it was when he went to 

49 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

Rome. The Pope took a great fancy to him and 
hallowed him as his ''bishop's son." Just how 
old this charming boy was when he began to read 
we do not know. At that time, of course, all 
boys read Latin, for there were no English books 
to read. But there is an old English couplet — a 
couplet is two lines of verse with a rhyme at the 
end of each Une — which may tell the story of 
Alfred's reading: 

At writing he was good enough, and yet as he telleth me, 
He was more than ten years old ere he knew his ABC. 

Alfred may have been younger or older than 
this. We don't know, and the probability is that 
we never shall know. This Uttle boy was much 
loved by his father, King Ethel\\'ulf, and his 
mother. Queen Osburh. He had many brothers 
and sisters, and was himself the fifth child. But 
he was a finer-looking boy than the others, and 
more graceful in his way of speaking and in his 
manners. 

From the time that he was a tiny child he loved 
to know things. And 5^et his parents and nurses 
allowed him to remain tmtaught in reading and 
writing until he was quite a big boy. But at 
night, when the gleemen sang songs to the harp 
in the royal villa, Alfred listened attentively. 
He had memorized very early some splendid old 
English songs, such as ''Beownilf.'* He knew all 
about Grendel, and all about the death of the war- 

50 



THE BOY WHO WON A PRIZE 

rior Beowulf after his battle with the dragon. 
And he had listened to gentler songs, like the one 
of the cowherd, Caedmon. He listened to the 
singing of poems which were full of the sea and 
full of war. Saints, warriors, and pirates were 
the chief heroes. A Roman poet, thinking of the 
warriors and pirates, called the English people 
*'sea wolves." All their poetry was full of the sea, 
and it is still true that the English love the sea. 

But you must not think of these people, in the 
midst of whom Alfred was bom, as just warriors. 
They loved their homes, and their poetry is full 
of love for their families and for the dear old home- 
place, wherever it happened to be. Besides home- 
loving poetry, the gleemen sang many religious 
poems to which the little Alfred listened. Among 
them was the story of Caedmon, as I have said. 
We hear, too, of warrior saints, good men who did 
not go out to slay a fire-spewing dragon lying on 
a heap of gold, as did Beowulf, but who taught 
them how to fight the dragon of evil which lurks 
somewhere near or within us all the time. 

It is this sort of golden and every-day vic- 
tory that not only Caedmon, the cowherd, sings, 
but also Cynewulf, who lived during the last 
half of the eighth century. Cynewulf was a 
minstrel at the court of one of the Northumbrian 
kings — ^just such a minstrel or gleeman as Alfred 
sometimes listened to on many a night when he 

SI 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

was committing to memory some stirring or beau- 
tiful Anglo-Saxon poem. This poet-singer loved 
the sea with all his heart, and his poetry is full of 
this love. And in our own day, eleven centuries 
later, Tennyson wrote poems in their spirit not 
unlike Old English poems. There is one called 
''The Sailor Boy'' which resembles an Anglo- 
Saxon poem called ''The Seafarer." It is a spir- 
ited little poem and begins: 

He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, 

Shot o'er the sultry harbour-bar, 
And reached the ship and caught the rope, 

And whistled to the morning star. 

God help me! save I take my part 

Of danger on the roaring sea, 
A devil rises in my heart, 

Far worse than any death to me. 

That devil is, of course, the devil of idleness, of 
uselessness. These stanzas are worth memorizing. 
You can see the spirit of a poet sometimes has a 
very long life. Here is one of the Old English 
riddles : 

On the sand I stayed, by the sea-wall near, 
All beside the surge-inflowing! Firm I sojourned there, 
Where I first was fastened. Only few of men 
Watched among the waste where I wonned on the earth. 
But the brown-backed billow, at each break of day. 
With its water-arms enwrapt me! Little weened I then, 
That I e'er should speak, in the after-days, 
Mouthless o'er the mead-bench. . . . 

52 



THE BOY WHO WON A PRIZE 



What do you think that meant? A reed flute — 
a Uttle flute on which one played a song. 

When Christianity came to England, as it did 
in 597 with St. Augustine, almost three hundred 
years before little Alfred was bom, it made men 
care less for warfare and more for Christ. It is 
difficult to do what Christ told us to do — love one 
another, and at the same time fight one another. 
And that we should love one another was the great 
new message of Christianity. Christ was in men's 
minds, however, in those olden days, not only our 
gentle Saviour, but also a hero who went forth 
to war. 

Alfred knew all about warfare, but it was not 
for warfare that this gentle boy and brave man 
cared most. One day his noble mother, Osburh, 
showed him and his brothers a book of poetry 
written in English. 

''Whichever of you," she said, ''shall the soonest 
learn this volume shall have it for his own." 

This book was a very beautiful book with an 
illuminated letter at the beginning of the volume. 
An illuminated letter is usually bright with gold 
as well as with other colors. Of course the boy 
Alfred wanted this wonderful book. 

He said before all his brothers, who were older 
than he, "Will you really give that book to one 
of us, that is to say to him who can first under- 
stand and repeat it to you?" 

S3 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

'*Yes," answered his mother, smiling, and as- 
suring him that it was so. 

Alfred thereupon took the book from her hand 
and went to his master to read it. And it was not 
so very long before he had it all by heart. Then 
one day he brought the book to his mother and 
recited it. And so well did he do that he received 
the gift as his mother had promised him he should. 

We have taken a look through the golden door 
over which is written Old English Poetry, We 
know something of what the boy Alfred learned 
from the book his mother gave him. 

By that time he had grown to be a large boy. 
When he was still a little boy he had been taken 
from his nurses and taught the use of arms and 
how to ride. All his training was teaching him 
how to be a soldier. Yet there was something for 
which Alfred cared even more. All about them 
in those days were the Danes, the fiercest of fight- 
ing-men. Government, the gentle religion of 
Christ, peace, had been almost dislodged by these 
fierce, heathen Danes. Yet in the midst of the 
war-filled years of his boyhood and young manhood 
Alfred was dreaming of what English books, of 
what education in their own tongue, might do for 
his people. 

And even in war times they were very busy 
just getting things together in order to live. They 
had to have food, they had to be warm, they had 
to have houses and clothes. In the woods they 

54 



THE BOY WHO WON A PRIZE 

had pigs — wild-looking swine with tusks. In the 
fields they had cattle and sheep and chickens. 
From the sea they took fish. They made butter 
and cheese, ale and mead, candles, leather from 
skins, and they wove cloth and silk. They kept 
bees, too, as you know from what happened to 
little Finan in the story of Caedmon. Besides 
all these things they had their carpenter^s work, 
their blacksmith's, their baker's, hunting, wood- 
cutting, the making of weapons, and a himdred 
and one other employments. 

Still, despite all the warfare and the work, 
Alfred, when he became king in 871, had time to 
do a great deal for the education of the boys and 
girls of those stirring days. The yotmg king wrote 
in English and translated from Latin into English 
so that the people might have books in their own 
tongue. And since Bede's translation of the 
Gospel of St. John was lost, Alfred must be called 
the true *' father of English prose.'' Just as 
Whitby and the stall in which Caedmon saw the 
vision and learned how to sing was the cradle 
of English poetry, so was Winchester the cradle 
of English prose. To accomplish this work the 
good king brought scholars from all over the world. 
Asser, his secretary and biographer, has compared 
Alfred to a most productive bee which flew here 
and there asking questions as he went. He made 
it possible for every free-bom youth to learn to 
read and write English perfectly. Indeed, this 

SS 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

wonderful king made himself into a schoolmaster 
and took on the direction of a school in his own 
court. He translated from well-known books 
into English, among others Bede's History and 
Pope Gregory's Pastoral Care, Although he freed 
his people from the fierce Danes, through his love 
for a book he did more for his own times and for 
all times — more, almost, than any other English 
boy has ever grown up to do. 



VII 



A fisherman's boy 



WHEN we say that we are English-speaking, it 
seems as if it were not necessary to say more 
than that. But the more we wander about in the 
Great Palace of English Literature opening golden 
doors, the more do we realize that we cannot say 
that this palace was built by English hands alone. 
No, the men who built it were not only English, 
they were, as you know already, Welsh, Irish, 
Scotch. Indeed, the very word * 'English/' was 
brought to England by an invader, just as the 
word ''America" was brought to the North Ameri- 
can continent by a discoverer. Not only was this 
Palace of English Literature built by those who 
were Welsh, Irish, and Scotch, as well as English, 
but also by Danes and Normans. 

The English came to Britain in 449. About 
three hundred and fifty years later (790) the Danes 
began to ravage Northumbria, which you have 
come to know through the story of Caedmon the 
cowherd. But the Danes were of English stock, 

57 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

so to speak, and they neither changed the language 
nor altered things in the life of boys and girls and 
men and women. After all it was much the same 
life after they came as it was before. They brought 
with them some stories — just as the English 
''Beowulf.'' Among the Danish-English stories 
were ''Havelok the Dane" and ''King Horn/' 
both written down about 1280, but told and stmg 
much before that time. 

In her early days before she became a great 
world power, England had many conquerors. Not 
only the English and the Danes, but also the Nor- 
mans were her conquerors in 1066 under William 
the Conqueror. English story-telling, as, for 
example, Malory's ''Morte d'Arthur," could never 
have been the same without the Norman or 
French influence. If we pick up a handful of so- 
called English words, we shall see that some of 
these words are English, others are French, and 
still others Latin in their origin. But the Nor- 
man spoke French only for a while in Eng- 
land. He soon left the speaking and writing 
of French for that of English. However, there 
are many beautiful words, many strong words, 
many words of customs and manners which we 
should not find in the Great Palace of English 
Literature but for the conquerors who came to 
England. 

There are several manuscripts in which the 
story of Havelok is found. But the one which is 

58 



A FISHERMAN^S BOY 

written in an English dialect shows best how old 
the story is. 

There was a King whose name was Aethel- 
wold, whose only heir was a tiny little girl. And 
the little girl's name was Goldborough. Alas, the 
King found he must die and leave his little girl 
fatherless! So he called to him the wisest and 
mightiest of his earls. The name of this Earl was 
Godrich. And the King made the Earl promise 
that he would guard his little girl until she was 
twenty years old, and that then he would give her 
in marriage to the fairest and strongest man alive. 

But when the Earl Godrich saw^ how lovely little 
Goldborough was going to be, and knew that he 
would have to give up the kingdom to her before 
long, he was angry, and took her from Winchester 
to Dover on the English seacoast and shut little 
Goldborough up in a castle so that she could not 
get out. 

In Denmark, just about this time, there lived 
a King whose name was Birkabeyn who had one 
boy and two sweet Uttle girls. He, too, realized 
that he had to die. So he called to him his wisest 
Earl, a man by the name of Godard, and charged 
him to care for his children until Havelok, the boy, 
was old enough to rule the land. But this wicked 
Earl shut little Swanborow and Helfled up in a 
castle and had them killed. 

And Godard was just about to kill Havelok, 

59 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

too, when he bethought him he would have some- 
body else do this terrible deed. The wicked Earl 
sent for a fisherman who would, he knew, do 
his will. 

''Grim," said the wicked Earl, ''to-morrow I 
will make thee rich if thou wilt take this child 
and throw him into the sea to-night.'* 

Grim took the boy Havelok and bound him and 
gagged him and took him home in a black bag. 
WTien Grim carried the sack into his cottage, 
Dame Leve, his wife, was so frightened that she 
dropped the sack her husband had handed to her, 
and cracked poor little Havelok's head against a 
stone. 

They let the boy lie this way until midnight, 
when it would be dark enough for Grim to drown 
Havelok in the sea. Leve was just bringing Grim 
some clothes that he might put on to go out and 
drown the King's son, when they saw^ a Ught shin- 
ing about the child. 

"What is this Hght?'' cried Dame Leve. "Rise 
up. Grim." 

In haste the fisherman rose and they went over 
to the child, about whose head shone a clear light, 
from whose mouth came rays of light like sun- 
beams. It was as if many candles were burning 
in that tiny fisherman's hut. They unbound the 
boy and they found on his right shoulder a king's 
mark, bright and fair like the Ughts. 

Thev were overcome bv what Godard had done 

60 



A FISHERMAN^S BOY 

and had almost led them to do. They fell upon 
their knees before the little boy and promised to 
feed and clothe him. And so they did, and they 
were very good to hirn and kept him from all harm. 
But Grim and his wife became frightened, for fear 
that Godard would discover that they had not 
drowned the child and would hang them. There- 




HENRY III. SAILING HOME FROM GASCON Y, 1 243 

Drawn by Matthew Paris 
MS. Roy. 14 C. vii 



Upon Grim sold all that he had, sheep, cow, horse, 
pigs, goat, geese, hens — everything, in short, that 
was his. Taking his money, he put his wife, his 
three little sons, and two pretty little girls and 
Havelok into his fishing-boat and they set sail for 
England. 

The north wind blew and drove them down 
upon the coast of England near the river Humber, 
and there Grim landed, and the place is called 
5 61 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

Grimsby to this day. Then Grim set himself to 
his old occupation of fishing, and he caught 
sturgeon, whale, turbot, salmon, seal, porpoise, 
mackerel, flounder, plaice, and thomback. And 
he and his sons carried the fish about in baskets 
and sold them. 

Yet while Grim fed his family well, Havelok 
lay at home and did naught. And when Havelok 
stopped to think about that, he was ashamed, for 
he was a fine, strong boy. 

'*Work is no shame," said the King's son to 
himself. 

And the next day he carried to market as much 
fish as four men could. And every bit of fish did 
he sell and brought back the money, keeping not 
a farthing for himself. Alas ! there came a famine 
about this time, and Grim had great fear on Have- 
lok's account lest the boy starve. 

'* Havelok,'' said Grim, *'our meat is long since 
gone. For myself it does not matter, but I fear 
for thee. Thou knowest how to get to Lincoln, 
and there they will give thee a chance to earn thy 
food. Since thou art naxed, I will make thee a 
coat from my sail." 

This he did, and with the coat on and barefoot 
the King's son found his way to Lincoln. For two 
days the lad had no food. On the third day he 
heard some one crying, *' Bearing-men, bearing- 
men, come here!" Havelok leaped forward to the 
Earl's cook and bore the food to the castle. An- 

62 



A FISHERMAN^S BOY 

other time he lifted a whole cart-load of fish and 
bore it to the castle. 

The cook looked him over and said: "Wilt thou 
work for me? I will feed thee gladly." 

**Feed me," answered Havelok, *'and I will 
make thy fire bum and wash thy dishes." 

And because Havelok was a strong lad and a 
good boy, as all kings' sons are not, he worked 
hard from that day forth. He bore all the food 
in and carried all the wood and the water, and 
worked as hard as if he were a beast. And he was 
a merry lad, too, for he knew how to hide his 
griefs. And the old story says that all who saw 
him loved him, for he was meek and strong and 
fair. But still he had nothing but the wretched 
coat to wear. So the cook took pity on him and 
bought him span-new clothes and gave him stock- 
ings and shoes. And when he had put them on 
he looked the King's son he was. At the Lincoln 
games he was *'like a mast," taller and straighter 
than any youth there. In wrestling he overcame 
every one. Yet he was known for his gentleness. 
Never before had Havelok seen stone-putting, but 
when his master told him to try, Havelok threw 
the stone twelve feet beyond what any one else 
could do. 

The story of the stone-putting was being told 
in castle and hall when Earl Godrich heard it, and 
said to himself that here was the tallest, strongest, 
and fairest man alive, and he would fulfil his 

63 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

promise and get rid of Goldborough, the King's 
daughter, by giving her to Havelok, whom he 
thought to be just a cook's boy. Now Havelok 
did not wish to marry any more than did Gold- 
borough, but they were forced to. And when 
they were married Havelok knew not whither they 
could go, for he saw that Godrich hated them and 
that their lives were not safe. 

Therefore they went on foot to Grimsby, and 
royal was their welcome. Grim, the fisherman, 
had died. 

But his five children fell on their knees and 
said: ** Welcome, dear lord. Stay here and all 
is thine.'' 

And that night as they lay on their bed in the 
fisherman's hut, Goldborough discovered, because 
of the bright light which came from the mouth of 
Havelok, that he was a King's son. And it was 
not long after this they all set sail for Denmark, 
so that Havelok, with the help of Grim's sons and 
many others, might win back the kingdom of 
Denmark. 

It was in the house of Bernard Brown, the magis- 
trate of the Danish town, that sixty strong thieves, 
clad in wide sleeves and closed capes, attacked 
him. Bernard Brown seized an ax and leaped to 
the door to defend his home. 

One of the thieves shouted at him, ''We will go 
in at this door despite thee." 

And he broke the door asunder with a boulder. 

64 



A FISHERMAN'S BOY 

Whereupon Havelok took the great bar from 
across the door. And with the bar he slew sev- 
eral, yet the thieves had wounded him in many- 
places, when Grim's sons came upon the scene to 
defend their lord and saw the thieves treating 
Havelok as a smith does his anvil. Like madmen 
the three sons of Grim leaped into the fight, and 
they fought until not one of the thieves was left 
alive. 

When Earl Ubbe heard of this he rode down to 
Bernard Brown's. Then he heard the story of 
Havelok's bravery and of the terrible wounds he 
had received, so that Bernard Brown feared he 
might die because of them. 

*' Fetch Havelok quickly," commanded Ubbe. 
''If he can be healed, I myself will dub him 
knight.'' 

When a leech saw the wounds of Havelok he 
told Ubbe that they could be cured. 

''Come forth now," said Ubbe to Havelok, 
"thou and Goldborough and thy three servants." 

And with rejoicing did Ubbe bring them to his 
city. And about the middle of the night Ubbe 
saw a great light in the tower where Havelok was 
sleeping. He peered through a crack and he saw 
that the "sunny gleam" came from Havelok's 
mouth. It was as if a htmdred and seven candles 
were burning, and on Havelok's shoulder was a 
clear, shining cross. 

"He is Birkabeyn's heir," said Ubbe, "for never 

6S 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

in Denmark was brother so like to brother as this 
fair man is like the dead King/' 

And Earl Ubbe and his men fell at Havelok's 
feet and awoke him. And very happy was Have- 
lok, and thankful to God. And then came barons 
and warriors and thanes and knights and common 
men, and all swore fealty to Havelok. With a 
bright sword Ubbe dubbed Havelok knight and 
made him King. And the three sons of Grim 
were also made knights. Thereat were all men 
happy, and they wrestled and played, played the 
harp and the pipe, read romances from a book, 
and sang old tales. There was every sort of sport 
and plenty of food. 

Finally they all, a thousand knights and five 
thousand men, set forth that Havelok might take 
vengeance on the wicked Earl Godard. There 
was a hard fight, but at last they caught and botmd 
Earl Godard. And he was hung on the gallows 
and died there. Such was the end of one who be- 
trayed his trust. 

The wicked Earl Godrich in England, who had 
robbed Goldborough of her kingdom, heard that 
Havelok was become King of Denmark and also 
that he was come to Grimsby. So he gathered 
all his army together and there was a great battle. 
And the battle was going against Havelok, when 
the wicked hand of Godrich was struck off. After 
that Havelok and his men were victorious. Then 
did they condemn the Earl Godrich to death. 

66 



A FISHERMAN'S BOY 

And he was bound to an ass and led through 
London and burned at the stake. Such was the 
end of one who betrayed his trust. 

And after that Havelok and Goldborough reign- 
ed in England for sixty years. So great was the 
love of the King and Queen for each other that 
all marveled at it. Neither was happy away from 
the other. And never were they angry, for their 
love for each other was always new. 



VIII 

THE WEREWOLF 

IN the Great Palace of English Literature over 
one of the golden doors hangs a horn of ivory, 
and a sword of which the name is Durendal. 
Above that door is written Chanson de Roland^ 
which means the Song of Roland. Often in the 
stillness of the early morning or at dusk the Great 
Palace rings faintly with the music from that 
ivory horn which belonged to Roland, and which 
he sounded for the last time in the Pass of Ronce- 
vaux. Or there is heard the clinking of Durendal 
against the stone of the palace walls — no doubt 
the wind stirring it where it hangs beside the door 
it guards. 

** Chanson de Roland!" You see the story is 
French. The Normans brought it with them 
when they came to conquer Britain in 1066 under 
William of Normandy. Before the soldiers of 
William, the minstrel, Taillefer, rode singing of 
"Charlemagne, and of Roland, and of Oliver, and 
the vassals who fell at Roncevaux.*' 

68 



THE WEREWOLF 

'* Roland, comrade/' said Oliver, ''blow thy 
horn of ivory, and Charles shall hear it and bring 
hither again his army, and . . . succor us/' 

**Nay, first will I lay on with Durendal, the 
good sword girded at my side/' 

''Roland, comrade," urged Oliver, "blow thy 
horn of ivory, that Charles may hear it." 

"God forbid that they should say I sounded my 
horn for dread of the heathen." 

"Prithee look!" begged Oliver. "They are 
close upon us. Thou wouldst not deign to sound 
thy horn of ivory. Were the Kjing here we should 
suffer no hurt." 

Oliver was wise and Roland was brave, and the 
song that the minstrel Taillefer chanted before 
the conquering hosts of William of Normandy 
was a wonderful, stirring song. No doubt there 
flows in English veins to-day much of the courage 
of Roland and the wisdom of Oliver. Although 
the English continued English, yet for a long time 
following the conquest of England by the Nor- 
mans songs were simg in French rather than in 
English. And ready and witty was all that was 
written down in French, for the literature of the 
Normans was as brightly colored as a jewel and 
not grand and melancholy as was that of the 
Anglo-Saxons. "Beowulf" was the battle song 
of the Anglo-Saxons, the "Song of Roland" that 
of the Normans. Melancholy was the poem of 
"Beowulf." White and clear, stirring and flash- 

69 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

ing in the sunshine was the ''Chanson de Roland/' 
even as Roland's beloved sword Durendal, which 
is heard clinking against the stone of the Great 
Palace of English Literature. 

But ''Roland'' represented only a fraction of 
the story-telling in the French poetry of that time. 
The most exquisite and delightful story-teller of 
that twelfth century collected and wrote here 
charming stories on English soil and dedicated 
them to Henry II., who died in 1189. Her 
name was Marie de France, and of her lays a 
rival poet wrote* 

All love them much and hold them dear, 
Baron, count and chevalier, 
Applaud their form and take delight 
To hear them told by day and night. 
In chief, these tales the ladies please; 
They listen glad their hearts to ease. 

Marie de France's lays are based on British tra- 
dition. There are many of these delightful stor- 
ies. Among the most interesting of them is *'The 
Werewolf." 

Once upon a time in the days of King Arthur — 
for later there are some lines in Malory's ''Morte 
d' Arthur" which tells us that this story must 
have been true — there lived a man who for part 
of the week was a wolf — that is, he had the form 
and the appetite of a wolf, and was called a were- 

70 



THE WEREWOLF 

wolf. But nobody knew that he was a werewolf 
for three days in the week. Not even his wife, 
whom he loved well and devotedly, knew what 
happened to her husband while he was away from 
her these three days every week. 

It vexed the wife very much that she did not 
know, but she was afraid to question her husband, 
lest he be angry. At last one day she did ques- 
tion him. 

**Ask me no more," replied the husband, ''for 
if I answered you you would cease to love me." 

Nevertheless she gave him no peace until he 
had told her that three days in the week, because 
of a spell which was over him, he was forced to 
be a werewolf, and that when he felt the change 
coming over him he hid himself in the very thick- 
est part of the forest. 

Then the wife demanded to know what became 
of his clothes, and he answered that he laid them 
aside. The wife asked where he put them. He 
begged her not to ask him, for only the garments 
made it possible for him to return to human shape 
again. But the wife cried and begged until the 
knight, her husband, had told her all. 

** Wife," he said, ''inside the forest on a cross- 
road is a chapel. Near the chapel under a shrub 
is a stone. Beneath the stone is a hole, and in 
that hole do I hide my clothes imtil the enchant- 
ment makes it possible for me to take my human 
shape again." 

n 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

Now the wife was not a good wife. Instead of 
trying to help her husband to get free from the 
wolf shape he had to assume three days in every 
week, thereafter she loathed him and was afraid 
of him. And what is worse still, she betrayed him 
to another knight. She took this other knight 
into her confidence and told him where her hus- 
band hid his clothes when the spell came upon 
him and he took the form of a wolf. Thereupon 
the knight to whom she had told this dreadful 
secret stole the clothes, and they hid them where 
the poor wolf could never find them again. After 
that these two wicked people were married, while 
the poor wolf wandered about in the forest, griev- 
ing, for he had loved his wife well and truly. 

Some time after this the King was hunting one 
day in the forest, and his hounds gave chase to a 
wolf. At last, when the wretched beast was in 
danger of being overtaken by the hounds and torn 
into a thousand pieces, he fled to the King, seized 
him by the stirrup, and licked his foot submis- 
sively. 

The King was astonished. He called his com- 
panions, and they drove off the dogs, for the King 
would not have the wolf harmed. But when they 
started to leave the forest the wolf followed the 
King and would not be driven away. The King 
was much pleased, for he had taken a great liking 
to the wolf. He therefore made a pet of the lone- 
ly beast, and at night he slept in the King's own 

72 



THE WEREWOLF 

chamber. All the courtiers came to love the 
wolf, too, for he was a gentle wolf and did no one 
any harm. 

A long time had passed when one day the King 
had occasion to hold a court. His barons came 
from far and near, and among them the knight 
who had betrayed the werewolf. No sooner did 
the wolf see him than he sprang at him to kill 
him. And had the King not called the wolf off 
he would have torn the false knight to pieces. 
Every one was astonished that this gentle beast 
should show such rage. But after the court was 
over and as time went on they forgot the beast's 
savage act. 

At length the King decided to make a tour 
throughout his kingdom. And he took the wolf 
with him, for that was his custom. Now the 
werewolf's false wife heard that the King was 
to spend some time in the part of the cotmtry 
where she lived. So she begged for an audi- 
ence. But no sooner did she enter the presence- 
chamber than the wolf sprang at her and bit off 
her nose. 

The courtiers were going to slay the beast, but 
a wise man stayed their weapons. 

'*Sire,'' said the councilor, ''we have all caressed 
this wolf and he has never done us any harm. 
This lady was the wife of a man you held dear, 
but of whose fate we none of us know anything. 
Take my counsel and make this lady answer your 

73 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

questions, so shall we come to know why the wolf 
sprang at her/' 

This was done. The false knight who had mar- 
ried her was brought also, and they told all the 
wickedness they had done to the poor wolf. Then 
the King caused the wolf's stolen clothes to be 
fetched. But the wolf acted as if he did not see 
the clothes. 

*'Sire,'' said the councilor, ''if this beast is a 
werewolf he will not change back into his human 
shape until he is alone.'' 

They left him alone in the King's chamber, and 
put the clothes beside him. Then they waited 
for a long time. Lo, when they entered the cham- 
ber again, there lay the long-lost knight in a deep 
sleep on the King's bed! Quickly did the King 
run to him and embrace him, and after that he 
restored to him all his lost lands, and he banished 
the false wife and her second husband from the 
country. And they who were banished lived in a 
strange land, and all the girls among their chil- 
dren and grandchildren were without noses. 

So close we this little golden door — not the less 
precious because little — over which is written in 
letters all boys and girls should love: Marie de 
France y who wrote '' The Werewolf." 



IX 



AT Geoffrey's window 



AMONG all the golden doors in the Great Pal- 
^ ace of English Literature about which we are 
coming to know something, and through some of 
which we have already passed, there was one 
golden window on the stairway of the palace. 
This window on the stairway of the palace looked 
out upon a busy town and down upon the windings 
of the river Wye, and off upon hills and upon the 
ruins of a wonderful old abbey called Tintem 
Abbey, about which, some six hundred years 
later, an English poet called William Wordsworth 
was to write a poem called '* Tintem Abbey.'* 
Wordsworth wrote ''We Are Seven,'* and also 
this little poem about a butterfly: 

I've watched you now a full half -hour, 
Self -poised upon that yellow flower; 
And, little Butterfly! indeed 
I know not if you sleep or feed. 
How motionless! Not frozen seas 
More motionless! and then 
What joy awaits you, when the breeze 
Hath found you out among the trees 
And calls you forth again. 

75 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

This plot of orchard ground is ours; 

My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; 

Here rest your wings when they are weary; 

Here lodge as in a sanctuary! 

Come often to us, fear no wrong; 

Sit near us on the bough! 

We'll talk of sunshine and of song, 

And summer days when we were young; 

Sweet childish days that were as long 

As twenty days are now. 



But the golden window at which Geoffrey sat 
was in Monmouth, and he was called Geoffrey 
of Monmouth. That was some seven hundred 
years ago. No doubt the little town was very 
busy even in 113 7 when Geoffrey sat at his 
window and wrote his famous chronicle called 
British History. 

Before Geoffrey began to write down his mar- 
velous stories, other stories and poems were writ- 
ten. In King Alfred^s time, when the home of 
English literature was shifted from the north to 
the south, two fine battle songs were written. 
They were the *'Song of Brunanburh'' and the 
*^Song of the Fight at Maldon.'' These were 
written in the tenth century. '*The Charge of 
the Light Brigade,'' composed some eight hundred 
years later by the poet Tennyson, is like these old 
songs in its short, rapid lines and in its thought. 
Every one should learn these lines from the poem 
Alfred Tennyson wrote: 

76 



AT GEOFFREY'S WINDOW 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward. 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
"Forward the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns!'' he said: 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

"Forward the Light Brigade!" 
Was there a man dismayed? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd: 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die: 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

But we have been long enough away from that 
golden window by which Geoffrey of Monmouth 
sat and wrote his immortal stories. Geoffrey 
was called a chronicler. And what he was sup- 
posed to be doing was jotting down accurately 
historical events year after year. Some of the 
chronicles written in this way have become the 
chief sources of English history. Among the 
men who wrote these chronicles were William of 
Malmesbury and Matthew Paris. And between 
them came Geoffrey himself. 

It will never be known, unless it should prove 
possible to roll time back some seven hundred 
years, just what Geoffrey did see from his win- 
6 77 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

dow as he looked out upon the busy town of 
Monmouth, or all that went on in his nimble 
mind. In any event it is plain that he had the 
best of good times inventing or retelling stories 
in his chronicle. There is to be found the story 
of King Lear and his three daughters, Regan, 
Goneril, and Cordelia — Lear, the hero of Shake- 
speare's play, *'King Lear,'* written over four hun- 
dred years later. There, too, is the* story of Fer- 
rex and Porrex. Geoffrey had a nimble quill pen 
with which to follow his nimble wit. He writes 
of Julius Caesar and of how he came to Great 
Britain. What Geoffrey of Monmouth says may 
be ridiculous enough in the light of history, but 
there it is, and there is Caesar himself, not only 
looking upon the coast of Britain but actually 
standing upon it. We become familiar, too, with 
many names known in stories about King Arthur. 
Perceval is one of these. And Uther Pendragon, 
who was the father of King Arthur, is another. 

One of the marvelous facts about Geoffrey is 
that when he looked out of that golden window 
he could see so much farther than just Monmouth. 
He could see all the way to the sea, and on its 
shores that beautiful city Tintagel, where Queen 
Igraine, the mother of Arthur, lived. But in 
Geoffrey's chronicle she was called Igema. A 
name is sometimes like a long, long journey, not 
only in its romance, but also because it takes you 
to other lands and other people, and passes, even 

78 



AT GEOFFREY'S WINDOW 

as the road upon a long journey, through many 
changes. 

Geofifrey saw from his golden window not only 
Tintagel, that beautiful South Welsh city by the 
sea, but also a little village in North Wales called 
Beddgelert. This little village is set down in the 
midst of mountains like a lump of sugar in the 
bottom of a deep cup. Outside this little village 
is a hill called Dinas Emrys. Geoffrey looked 
northward out of his golden window in Monmouth, 
and what do you think he saw? He saw the 
magician, Merlin, the youth who had never had 
a father. And this lad was quarreling with an- 
other lad in Caernarvon, a Welsh city thirteen 
miles away from the little village of Beddgelert. 

Now Vortigem had been attempting to build a 
tower on Dinas Emrys, but whatever the work- 
men did one day was swallowed up the next. 

Then some wise men said to Vortigem: **You 
must find a youth who has never had a father. 
You must sacrifice him and sprinkle the founda- 
tions with his blood.'' 

So Vortigem sent men to find a boy who had 
never had a father and who should be brought 
him that they might kill him. When Vortigem's 
messenger reached Caernarvon, thirteen miles 
away from Beddgelert and the hill Dinas Emrys, 
they found two boys playing games and quarrel- 
ing about their parentage. And one of them, 

79 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

Dabutius, was accusing the other, Merlin, of hav- 
ing no father. They took him to Vortigem. 

And Vortigem said, *'My magicians told me to 
seek out a lad who had no father, with whose 
blood the foundations of my building are to be 
sprinkled to make it stand/* 

'* Order your magicians,'' answered Merlin, ''to 
come before me and I will convict them of a lie." 

It is a terrible thing to be convicted of a lie, 
and of course the magicians did not wish to 
come. But Kiag Vortigem made them come and 
ordered them to sit down before Merlin. 

Merlin spoke to them after this manner: "Be- 
cause you are ignorant what it is that hinders the 
foimdations of the tower, you have told the King 
to kill me and to cement the stones with my 
blood. But tell me now, what is there tmder the 
fotmdations that will not suffer it to stand?" 

To this they gave no answer, for they were 
frightened. 

Then said Merlin, "I entreat yoiu' Majesty 
would command your workmen to dig into the 
grotmd, and you will find a pond which causes 
the fotmdations to sink." 

This the King had done, and a pond was found 
there. 

Then said Merlin to the King's magicians, 
"Tell me, ye false men, what is there under the 
pond?" 

But they were afraid to answer. 

80 



AT GEOFFREY^S WINDOW 

Merlin turned to King Vortigem and said, 
*' Command the pond to be drained, and at the 
bottom you will see two hollow stones, and in 
them are two dragons asleep/' 

The King had the pond drained, and he found 
all just as Merlin said it would be. And as the 
King sat on the edge of the drained pond out came 
the two dragons, one red and one white, and, ap- 
proaching each other, they began to fight, blow- 
ing forth fire from their nostrils. At last the white 
dragon got the advantage and made the red 
dragon fly to the other end of the drained pond. 

When King Vortigem asked Merhn to explain 
what this meant. Merlin burst into tears. 

Then commanding his voice, he spoke: '*In 
the days that are to come gold shall be squeezed 
from the lily and the nettle, and silver shall flow 
from the hoofs of bellowing cattle. The teeth 
of wolves shall be blunted and the lion's whelps 
shall be transformed into sea-fishes." 

And unto this day nobody knows exactly what 
Merlin meant, or what Geoffrey thought he 
meant, although there has been much guessing. 

Geoffrey must have been very fond of looking 
out of his window and seeing Merlin, for many 
a story he tells about him. There is the story of 
how MerUn helped to remove the stones of the 
Giants' Dance from Ireland. Giants of old had 
brought them from the farthest coast of Africa. 

8i 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

They were mystical stones and had value to heal 
and cure men. When these stones were found too 
heavy to be lifted by human hands, Merlin found 
a way, nevertheless, to lift them. Then the stones 
of the Giants' Dance were carried across the sea 
and placed in England at Stonehenge. It is an 
exciting story Geoffrey tells about the Giants' 
Dance, yet I fear we know no more really how the 
big stones got to Stonehenge than we know about 
the ribs of our solid earth. Certainly those stones 
were set up in Stonehenge even before men began 
recording history or GeojBfrey of Monmouth sat 
in his golden window. 

And there is the story of the 40,060 kings who 
never existed — ^which is more almost than ever 
did exist. And of the coming of St. Augustine to 
England, bringing with him the gentle religion of 
Christ. 

It would be very nice if all this about Merlin 
and the dragons and the Giants' Dance were 
what might be called true history. Alas, it is not ! 
In the first place, Geoffrey tells stories which vary 
greatly from what was actually known to be 
history. Then, too, this chronicle is full, as you 
have seen, of miraculous stories of one sort or 
another. And there are other reasons, also, why 
these delightful stories of Geoffrey of Monmouth 
must be taken with a pinch of salt. 

But it is because Geoffrey did sit at his window 
in the little town of Monmouth, writing these 

82 



AT GEOFFREY'S WINDOW 

stories which have to be taken with a pinch of salt, 
that English story-telling began to grow. Geof- 
frey's imagination was to English story-telling 
what the sunlight is in making a tulip grow. 
Story-telling grew out of the Chronicles, the so- 
called historical literature. The men of Geof- 
frey's time said that *'he had lied saucily and 
shamelessly.'' No doubt he had. Yet these 
same men could not help reading the stories 
he told, for they were so interesting that all men 
read them. What he had done was to take sev- 
eral Welsh legends, put them together cleverly, 
as a carpenter joins a delicate bit of woodwork, 
translate these Welsh legends into Latin and call 
the work a Chronicle. Not only was it read in 
England, but it was read all over the continent 
of Europe, too. It had great success. 

Geoffrey Gaimer put these stories into French. 
The stories traveled to France. Once there, other 
legends were added, and when Geoffrey's Chronicle 
turned up again in England it came back as the 
work of Wace, a Norman trouveur, or ballad-singer. 
But Geoffrey's stories were too good to let drop even 
after they had been through so many hands. An 
English priest in Worcestershire by the name of 
Layamon, translating the French poem which 
Wace had made out of Geoffrey's prose stories, 
retold the stories in English poetry. That was in 
1205, after Geoffrey had died. 

Geoffrey of Monmouth must have been very 

83 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

happy as he sat in his sunny, golden window and 
heard about the tales he had written there. He 
must have chuckled many a time over what the 
world had made out of his nimble story-telling 
wits. English literature could not be at all the 
same, in either prose or poetry, if it were not for 
that golden palace door over which was written 
Welsh or that window upon the stairway where 
Geoffrey sat. 

But it was the Normans who brought the taste 
for history with them to England in 1066, when 
they conquered the land which had been King 
Alfred's land. It was some time before the Nor- 
mans became what we call English in their feeling. 
Probably the Normans would never have become 
so strongly English in feeling if English patriot- 
ism, even after the conquest of 1066, had not re- 
mained very much alive. The English had writ- 
ten down in English some of the proverbs of their 
former King Alfred. The parents of the chroni- 
cler, William of Malmesbury, were both English 
and Norman. And, strangely enough, Layamon's 
''Bruf is not imlike the poetry of the cowherd 
Caedmon, the first of the great English singers, 
the first of English poets. 

Perhaps this very hour the sun is shining down 
upon that golden window of Geoffrey of Mon- 
mouth, and laughing for joy because the man who 
**lied so saucily'' was the first of the great Eng- 
lish story-tellers. 



X 

A FAMOUS KITCHEN BOY 

GEOFFREY'S window is a very fascinating 
place to be — possibly the most interesting 
window the world has ever seen. It is not just 
one lifetime which has found that window inter- 
esting, but more lifetimes than we can count 
comfortably. Sir Thomas Malory, who wrote his 
Morte d' Arthur in 1469, fairly lived in that win- 
dow; so did Shakespeare when he wrote ''King 
Lear'' in 1605, and even the modem poet, Alfred, 
Lord Tennyson, who wrote ''The Charge of the 
Light Brigade," composed a series of poems called 
' ' Idylls of the King, ' ' which return for their sources 
through Malory to Geoffrey at his window. 

There is one story, however, which Geoffrey did 
not see as he looked out of his golden window — 
the story of the famous kitchen boy, or " Gareth 
and Linet." This tale is found in Sir Thomas 
Malory's Morte d' Arthur, which was not com- 
pleted until 1469, many years after the writing 
of Geoffrey's Chronicle in 1147. Clear and sun- 

85 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

shiny is the English of this wonderful book of 
Malory's, and nowhere in the world can more 
beautiful, exciting, and marvelous stories be found 
than between the covers of the Morte d' Arthur, 
The Morte d' Arthur was written about twenty 
years after the invention of printing by Coster 
and Gutenberg. Sixteen years after the com- 
pletion of the book by Malory, Caxton printed it 
in black letter in English. There is only one per- 
fect copy of this book by Caxton, the first of the 
English printers, and that is in Brooklyn, New 
York. In the preface which Caxton wrote for 
the Morte d'Arthur, he says that in this book 
will be found ''many joyous and pleasant histories, 
and noble and renowned acts of humanity, gentle- 
ness and chivalries. . . . Do after the good and 
leave the evil, and it shall bring you good fame 
and renown.'' Certainly that is what the kitchen 
boy did, and it brought him to good fame. 

It was one day when King Arthur was holding 
a Round Table court at Kynke Kenadonne by the 
sea. And they were at their meat, three hundred 
and fifty knights, when there came into the hall 
two men well clad and fine-looking. And, as the 
old story says, there leaned upon their shoulders 
''the goodliest young man and the fairest that 
ever they all saw, and he was large and long and 
broad in the shoulders, and well visaged, and the 
fairest and the largest-handed that ever man saw, 

86 




KNIGHT IN ARMOR 

MS. Roy. 2 A. xxii 
Late Thirteenth Century 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

but he fared as if he might not go or bear him- 
self—" 

The two men supported the young man up to 
the high dais upon which Arthur was feasting. 
When the yoimg man that was being helped for- 
ward was seen there was silence. Then the young 
man stretched up straight and besought Arthur 
that he would give him three gifts. 

*'The first gift I will ask now/' he said, *'but 
the other two gifts I will ask this day twelve 
months wheresoever you hold your high feast." 

''Ask," replied Arthur, ''and you shall have 
yoiu' asking." 

*'Sir, this is my petition for this feast: that you 
will give me meat and drink enough for this twelve- 
month, and at that day I will ask mine other two 
gifts." 

*'My fair son," said Arthur, ''ask better. This 
is but simple asking." 

But the young man would ask no more. And 
when the King, who had taken a great liking to 
him, asked him for his name, the young man said 
that he could not tell him. 

The King took him^ to Sir Kay, the steward, 
and charged him to give the young man the best 
of all the meats and drinks and to treat him as 
a lord's son. 

But Sir Kay was angry, and said: "An he had 
come of gentlemen, he would have asked of you 
horse and armor, but such as he is, so he asketh. 

88 



A FAMOUS KITCHEN BOY 

And since he hath no name, I shall give him a 
name that shall be Beaumains, that is Pair-hands, 
and into the kitchen shall I bring him, and there 
he shall have fat brose ever>^ day, that he shall 
be as fat by the twelvemonth's end as a pork 
hog/' 

And Sir Kay scorned him and mocked at him. 
On hearing this both Sir Launcelot, the greatest 
of the Knights of the Round Table, and Sir 
Gawaine were wroth and bade Sir Kay leave his 
mocking. 

*'I dare lay my head," said Sir Launcelot, *'he 
shall prove a man of great worship.'' 

''It may not be by no reason," replied Sir Kay, 
''for as he is so hath he asked." 

Beaumains, or Fair-hands, was put into the 
kitchen, and lay there nightly as the boys of the 
kitchen did. The old book says: "He endured 
all that twelvemonth, and never displeased man 
nor child, but always he was meek and mild. But 
ever when he saw any jousting of knights, that 
would he see an he might." 

Sir Launcelot gave him gold to spend, and 
clothes, and whenever the boy went where there 
were games or feats of strength he excelled in 
them all. 

But always Sir Kay would taunt him with these 
words spoken to others, "How like you my boy 
of the kitchen?" 

And so Fair-hands, the kitchen boy, continued 

89 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

in service for a year. At the close of the year 
came a lady to the court and told about her sister 
who was besieged in a castle by a tyrant who was 
called the Red Knight of the Red Laundes. But 
she would not tell her name, and therefore the 
King would not permit any of his knights to 
go with her to rescue her sister from the Red 
Knight, who was one of the worst knights in the 
world. 

But at the King's refusal, Beaumains, or Fair- 
hands, as he was called, spoke, ''Sir King, God 
thank you, I have been this twelvemonth in your 
kitchen, and have had my full sustenance, and 
now I will ask my two gifts that be behind.'* 

*'Ask, upon my peril," said the King. 

*'Sir, this shall be my two gifts: first, that you 
will permit me to go with this maiden that I may 
rescue her sister. And second, that Sir Launcelot 
shall ride after me and make me knight when I 
require it of him.'* 

And both these requests the King granted. 
But the maiden was angry because, she said, he 
had given her naught but his kitchen page. 

Then came one to Fair-hands and told him that 
his horse and armor were come for him. And 
there was a dwarf with everything that Beau- 
mains needed, and all of it the richest and best it 
was possible for man to have. But though he was 
horsed and trapped in cloth of gold, he had neither 

shield nor spear. 

90 



A FAMOUS KITCHEN BOY 

Then said Sir Kay openly before all, ''I will ride 
after my boy of the kitchen/' 

Just as Beaumains overtook the maiden, so did 
Sir Kay overtake his former kitchen page. 

*'Sir, know you not me?" he demanded. 

*'Yea,*' said Beaumains, *'I know you for an 
imgentle knight of the court. Therefore beware 
of me." 

Thereupon Sir Kay put his spear in the rest and 
ran straight upon him, and Beaumains came fast 
upon him with his sword in his hand. And Beau- 
mains knocked the spear out of the knight's hand 
and Sir Kay fell down as he had been dead. 
Beaumains took Sir Kay's shield and spear and 
rode away upon his own horse. The dwarf took 
Sir Kay's horse. 

Just then along came Sir Launcelot, and Beau- 
mains challenged him to a joust. And so they 
fought for the better part of an hour, rushing to- 
gether like infuriated boars. And Sir Launcelot 
marveled at the young man's strength, for he 
fought more like a giant than like a knight. At 
last he said, *' Fight not so sore; your quarrel and 
mine is not so great but we may leave off." 

** Truly that is truth," said Beaumains, ''but 
it doth me good to feel your strength, and yet, 
my lord, I showed not the most I could do." 

Then Sir Laimcelot confessed to Beaumains 
that he had much ado to save himself, and that 
Beaumains need fear no earthly knight. And 

91 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

then Beaumains confessed to Sir Launcelot that 
he was the brother of Sir Gawaine and the young- 
est son of King Lot ; that his mother, Dame Mor- 
gawse, was sister to King Arthur, and that his 
name was Gareth. 

After that Launcelot knighted Gareth, and 
Gareth rode on after the maiden whose sister was 
kept a prisoner by the Red Knight. 

When he overtook her she turned upon him 
and said: ''Get away from me, for thou smellest 
all of the kitchen. Thy clothes are dirty with 
grease and tallow. What art thou but a ladle- 
washer?'' 

*'Damosel," replied Beaumains, *'say to me 
what you will, I will not go from you whatsoever 
you say, for I have undertaken to King Arthur for 
to achieve your adventure, and so shall I finish 
it to the end or I shall die therefor.'' 

Then came a man thereby calling for help, for 
six thieves were after him. Even when Beau- 
mains had slain all the six thieves and set the man 
free from his fears, then the maiden used him 
despicably, calling him kitchen boy and other 
shameful names. 

On the next day Beaumains slew two knights 
who would not allow him and the maiden to cross 
a great river. 

But all the maiden did was to taunt him. 
*'Alas," she said, ''that ever a kitchen page should 
have that fortune to destroy even two doughty 

92 



A FAMOUS KITCHEN BOY 

knights; but it was not rightly force, for the first 
knight stumbled and he was drowned in the water, 
and by mishap thou camest up behind the last 
knight and thus happily slew him." 

**Say what you will,'' said Beaumains, '*but with 
whomsoever I have ado withall, I trust to God 
to serve him or he depart.'' 

''Fie, fie, foul kitchen knave," answered the 
maiden, ''thou shalt see knights that shall abate 
thy boast." 

And so she continued to scold him and would 
not rest therefrom. And they cam^e to a black 
land, and there was a black hawthorn, and 
thereon hung a black banner, and on the other 
side there hung a black shield, and by it stood a 
black spear great and long, and a great black 
horse covered with silk, and a black stone fast by. 

And before the Knight of the Black Lands the 
maiden used Beaumains despicably, calling him 
kitchen knave and other such names. And the 
Black Knight and Beaumains came together for 
battle as if it had been thunder. After hard 
struggle Beaumains killed the Black Knight and 
rode on after the damosel. 

"Away, kitchen boy, out of the wind," she 
cried, "for the smell of thy clothes grieves me." 

And so ever despitefuUy she used him. Yet he 
overcame the Green Knight, who was the brother 
of the Black Knight, and spared his life at the 
maiden's request. 

7 93 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

And it was after the vanquishing of the Green 
Knight that they saw a tower as white as any 
snow, and all around the castle it was double- 
diked. Over the tower gate there hung fifty 
shields of divers colors, and under that tower was 
a fair meadow. And the lord of the tower looked 
out of his window and beheld Beaumains, the 
maiden, and the dwarf coming. 

*'With that knight will I joust,'' called the lord 
of the tower, *'for I see that he is a knight 
errant.'' 

And before the knight the maiden used him 
despitefuUy. 

And ever he replied, patiently, ''Damosel, you 
are uncourteous so to rebuke me, for meseemeth I 
have done you good service." Then did the heart 
of the maiden soften a little. 

* * I marvel what manner of man you be, ' ' she said, 
**for it may never be otherwise but that you come 
of a noble blood, for so shamefully did woman 
never rule a knight as I have done you, and ever 
courteously you have suffered me, and that comes 
never but of gentle blood." 

**Damosel," answered Beaumains, ''a knight 
may little do that may not suffer a damosel. 
And whether I be gentleman born or not, I let 
you wit, fair damosel, I have done you gentle- 



man's service." 



She begged him to forgive her, and this Beau- 
mains did with all his heart. 

94 



A FAMOUS KITCHEN BOY 

Then they met Sir Persant of Inde, who was 
dwelling only seven miles from the siege, and the 
maiden besought Beaumains to flee while there 
was yet time. But he refused. 

And when Sir Persant and Beaumains met 
they met with all that ever their horses might run, 
and broke their spears either into three pieces, 
and their horses rushed so together that both 
their horses fell dead to the earth. And they got 
off their horses and fought for more than two 
hours. And Beaimiains spared his life only at 
the maiden's request. 

Then Beaimiains told Sir Persant that his name 
was Sir Gareth. And the maiden said that hers 
was Linet, and that she was sister to Dame 
Lionesse, who was besieged. 

Then the dwarf took word to the lady who 
was besieged, and the others came on after. 

**How escaped he," said the lady, Dame Lion- 
esse, **from the brethren of Sir Persant?'' 

*' Madam," said the dwarf, **as a noble knight 
should." 

''Ah," said Dame Lionesse, *' commend me unto 
your gentle knight, and pray him to eat and drink 
and make him strong. Also pray him that he be 
of good heart and courage, for he shall meet with 
a knight who is neither of bounty, courtesy, nor 
gentleness; for he attendeth unto nothing but 
murder, and that is the cause I cannot praise him 
nor love him." 

95 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

All that night Beaumains lay in an hermitage, 
and upon the mom he and the damosel Linet broke 
their fast and heard mass. Then took they their 
horses, and, riding through a fair forest, they 
came out upon a plain where there were many 
pavilions and tents and a castle and much smoke 
and a great noise. When they came near the 
siege Beaumains espied upon great trees goodly 
knights hanging by the neck, their shields about 
their necks with their swords, and gilt spurs upon 
their heels. There hung high forty knights. 

''What meanest this?'' said Sir Beaumains. 

''Fair sir, ''answered the damosel, ''these knights 
came hither to this siege to rescue my sister, 
Dame Lionesse, and when the Red Knight of the 
Red Lands had overcome them he put them to 
this shameful death." 

Then rode they to the dikes, and saw them 
double-diked with full warlike walls; and there 
were lodged many great lords nigh the walls; 
and there was great noise of minstrelsy; and the 
sea beat upon the side of the walls, where there 
were many ships and mariners' noise. And also 
there was fast by a sycamore-tree, and there hung 
a horn, the greatest that ever they saw, of an 
elephant's bone. Therewith Beaumains spurred 
his horse straight to the sycamore-tree, and blew 
so eagerly the horn that all the siege and the castle 
rang thereof. And then there leaped out knights 
out of their tents and pavilions, and they within 

96 



A FAMOUS KITCHEN BOY 

the castle looked over the walls and out of windows. 
Then the Red Knight of the Red Lands armed 
him hastily, and two barons set on his spurs upon 
his heels, and all was blood red, his armor, spear, 
and shield. 

*'Sir," said the damosel Linet, ''look you be glad 
and light, for yonder is your deadly enemy, and 
at yonder window is my sister. Dame Lionesse.'' 

Then Beaumains and the Red Knight put their 
spears in their rests, and came together with all 
their might, and either smote the other in the 
middle of their shields, that the surcingles and 
cruppers broke and fell to the earth both, and the 
two knights lay stunned upon the ground. But 
soon they got to their feet and drew their swords 
and ran together like two fierce lions. And then 
they fought tmtil it was past noon, tracing, rac- 
ing, and foining as two boars. Thus they en- 
dured until evensong time, and their armor was 
so hewn to pieces that men might see their naked 
sides. Then the Red Knight gave Beaumains 
a buffet upon the helm, so that he fell groveling 
to the earth. 

Then cried the maiden Linet on high: *'0h. Sir 
Beaumains, where is thy courage ? Alas ! my sister 
beholdeth thee and she sobbeth and weepeth." 

When Beaumains heard this he lifted himself 
up with great effort and got upon his feet, and 
lightly he leaped to his sword and gripped it in 
his hand. And he smote so thick that he smote 

97 



EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES 

the sword out of the Red Knight *s hand. Sir 
Beaumains fell upon him and unlaced his helm 
to have slain him. But at the request of the 
lords he saved his life and made him yield him 
to the lady. 

And so it was that Beaumains, or Sir Gareth, 
as his real name was, came into the presence of 
his lady and won her love through his meekness 
and gentleness and courtesy and courage, as every 
true knight should win the love of his lady. 

So ends happily one of the charming stories of 
adventure and knighthood in one of the greatest 
Cycles of Romance the world has ever known. 
Indeed, in that Great Palace we have entered, 
and some of whose golden doors we have been 
opening, there is no door more loved by human 
beings than the one over which is written Ro- 
mance, for boys and girls and their elders have 
always loved a romantic story, and always will. 

There are four great romantic stories in the 
Palace of English Literature. The first is King 
Arthur and the Round Table y which Geoffrey of 
Monmouth discovered for us by his golden win- 
dow. The second great romance is the story of 
Charlemagne. This was in the twelfth century, 
and the most valiant story which grew out of the 
Charlemagne Cycle was that of Roland. Every 
one should know the story of Roland and his 
famous sword, Durendal. The third is the Life 

98 



A FAMOUS KITCHEN BOY 

of Alexander, which came to England from the 
east. And the fourth is the Siege of Troy, com- 
posed in the thirteenth century and written in 
Latin. 

It takes many, many stories to satisfy our love 
of Romance. As we pass through the golden door 
over which is written Romance, one whole wall is 
filled with the names of lesser romances forgotten 
long, long ago. But the stories which Sir Thomas 
Malory gave us in his Morte d' Arthur, written in 
1469, will never be forgotten as long as the Eng- 
lish language is spoken. ' 



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009-002 



9901-009 



Striking clocks with wheels, late 

nth century. 
Westminster Hall and London Bridge 

built, late nth century. 
Wool manufactured in England, 

early 12th century. 
Silk cultivated in Sicily, 1 146. 
Leaning Tower of Pisa commenced, 


University of Paris Charter, c. 1200. 

The University of Oxford Charter, 
c. 1200.. 

The University of Cambridge Char- 
ter, c. 1231. 

Roger Bacon, 1214-1292. (Refer- 
ence to gunpowder.) 

Cologne Cathedral commenced, 1249. 

First rag paper, c. 1300. 

First apothecaries in England, 134S. 

Glass windows in general use, i34S. 


"Chanson de Roland," composed 
I 066-1097? 

Archbishop Anselm, 1 093-11 09. 

William of Guienne, the first trou- 
badour, late nth century. 

William of Malmesbury, 1095 - 
1 142. 

Chansons d'Alexandre, 1050-1150. 

Chronicle of Geoffrey of Mon- 
mouth, 1 137. 

Nibelungen Lied, c. 1140. 

Wace's "Brut d'Angleterre," 1155. 

Minnesingers. 

Arthurian legends, 12th century. 

Giraldus Cambrensis, 1 147-12 16. 

Crestien de Troyes, 1 140-1227. 

Gottfried von Strasburg. 

Marie de France, Lais, late 12th 
century. 


Walther von der Vogelweide, c. 
1170-1235. 

St. Francis of Assisi, 1 182-1226. 

Wolfram von Eschenbach's "Par- 
zival," early 13th century. 

The Bestiary, early 13th century. 

Romance of the Rose, 13th and 
14th centuries. 

Havelok (English version), 1300. 

Bevis of Hampton (English ver- 
sion), c. 1300. 

Guy of Warwick (English version), 
c. 1300. 

Mabinogion, 12 50-1 290. 

King Horn (English version), 1250. 

Dante, 1265-1321. 

Jean de Meung, b. 1280. 


William the Conqueror, 1066- 

1087. 
The Crusades, 109S-1270. 
Feudal system in England. 
Domesday Book, 1086. 
William Hi, 1087-1100. 
Henry L, 1 100-1135. 
Stephen, 1135-1154- 
Civil War, 1139-1142. 
Henry H., 1154-1189. 
Thomas a Becket, d. 1170. 
Richard L, n 89-1 199. 
John, 1199-1216. 


Magna Charta, 12 15. 
Henry III., 1216-1272. 
The Barons' War, 1262-1266. 
Edward I., 1272-1307. 
Wales subdued, 1282. 
William Wallace, fl. 1 296-1298. 
Edward U., 1307-1327. 
Robert Bruce, 1306-1329. 
Battle of Bannockburn, 13 14. 
Edward HL, 1327-1377. 
Scotland reorganized, 1328. 
Opening of Hundred Years' War 
with France, I337. 


002I-990I 


0S9I-00ZI 



